Now it’s Muma
and Old Anwar who are arguing.
Rice-bag walls don’t allow
privacy.
I sit on a stone outside our hut,
rinsing the sheet
that rests beneath my pallet.
Old Anwar and Muma
are fighting.
Fighting about me.
Muma’s words have fire on them.
“You are wasting her time!”
“You are wasting her!” Old Anwar snaps.
“There are attempts to make a school here anyway.
Soon you will not be able to prevent what is meant to be. Amira has a gift. Let her use it.”
“I want Amira to have the gifts of marriage
and children. Her desires are pushing these away.”
Old Anwar says,
“Stubborn woman, your close-mindedness
is pushing away Amira’s brilliance.”
I come inside
to find my mother and teacher
each gripping an end
of my tablet.
The soaked pallet sheet drips,
trickling droplets onto my toes.
Muma snaps,
“Amira, I found this tucked beneath your pallet.”
She tugs at my yellow paper.
Old Anwar will not let go.
“This impractical man has told me about
your lessons.”
Old Anwar’s gaze cuts to mine.
His chest rises and falls
with hard breaths.
My mother, so angry,
so fevered with fear.
But her eyes are filled with curiosity,
glimpsing the words and pictures
that fill my pages.