All My Rage

by Sabaa Tahir

But if those singers or writers saw Salahudin’s eyes, they’d change their tune. His eyes are the deep brown of a haveli door, with a ring of smoke around the edges. No one has eyes like his.

I miss my parents. I miss things I can’t put into words because they were taken before I knew how precious they were.

The rest of the day always seems like a silent, sepia film compared to the vibrancy of those minutes with her, as she explains the lyrics of a London Grammar song, or argues about why the magic systems in my favorite shows make no sense.

Cute

I hold him in my arms. He’s so much smaller than me. Sometime in the last year, I became taller than my father, bigger than my father, stronger than my father, and I hate the unfairness of it. He sobs, this fearless man who buried his parents and crossed oceans, who fell in love with a woman he barely knew and built a life with her in a desolate place.

As he speaks, I think of everything my mother taught me: How to love someone unconditionally. That joy can be found in small victories. That forgiveness is a gift to the person who grants it and to the person who receives it. But then the anger that seems permanently lodged in my brain reminds me of everything Ama didn’t teach me. That unconditional love isn’t always the best for us. That small victories aren’t always enough. That some things can’t be forgiven.