The Bookish Hijabi Writes

            Mother, I didn’t visit your grave, for I knew you never died. Whoever announced your death spoke a lie. It wasn’t you who faded— it was a color that dulled, a flower that withered, the sun that bled and finally set. Do they still believe it was you? Nonsense! Nothing has changed in you. Every bit of your blood flows through my veins, carrying all your scars and flaws. Your fingers breathe through my hands, wearing your worn and weathered touch. Your scent lingers in my limbs, drawing their attention to you. Whatever I cook, whatever I prepare, I enter the same kitchen you once graced with your presence. When I peel an onion, I feel your tears welling up  in my eyes. When I try a new recipe, I find you leaning against the basin, stirring the gravy. Nothing has altered in the haven you sheltered. When my brother cracks a joke, I find you smiling on my lips. When he fusses, your scowl reflects in me. Your heartbeat thrums within my chest. Your...