These Impossible Things

by Salma El-Wardany

In this house, things were said differently. There was a mug of tea that was always waiting for her father. It said, here, I love you. The family meals that were always on the table said, here, we care about you. To ask how you were was to complain that you’d been in the bathroom too long. To say I love you was to shout that you didn’t look both ways when crossing the road. Love came under the guise of anger and rough voices, which didn’t make it less loving, it just held a different shape.

You can’t stuff so much sadness into a body and think it can be contained. Like water running to the sea, it will always find its level.

You cannot crack open a chest and expect people not to notice. Hearts break loudly. Ringing like 3 a.m. sirens. Everyone in the area hears it, but they know there’s nothing they can do and since they can’t help, they lower their eyes and keep walking. When the thunder claps and the sirens pass and the wind howls, not many people choose to stand and stare at the storm. To be brokenhearted also means you become a selfish thing.

The problem with family is that you can love them completely while despising their every move.