Creative Writing





Under The Sutures.

I remember standing here as a child, feeding the ducks with my grandfather. He always emphasised the importance of giving to others, regardless of who or what they were.

'They are God's creations' he would say, tearing up pieces of bread into neat squares and carefully handing them to me each time a duck was close enough to feed.

'Even the ants and spiders?' I would ask, holding on to the tail of the long white thobe that he wore and peering over at the rainbow-like fish.

'Yes, even the ants and spiders,' he would say in Urdu, laughing and pulling me back from the edge of the water.

We would walk home, sit cross-legged on the floor and secretly drink tea from my grandmother's china cups, always accompanied by a glass jar of honey which he would carefully spoon into the bottom. I loved the way that it drizzled, almost like creating intricate patterns without all of the effort. Sometimes he would even hand me the spoon, grant me the responsibility.

He would then proceed to cut up an apple, encourage me to eat with talks of strength and Vitamin C. Other times he would sit in silence, pour small amounts of tea into a bowl, wait for it to cool before taking a sip. I remember drinking slowly, constantly peering at the remnants in his cup to make sure that the moment would be infinite. 

That was my safe place, in the spaces of his stillness. 

I miss him dearly. 

I haven't been able to eat an apple since.

The park is now a place where drunk people often sit around. They've found floating bodies in the water and sometimes as I walk through, a couple will ask if I'd like them to say a prayer.

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