Ayesha Raees

Diary Entry: 25th April 2020. Lahore.

Upon entering the house, the first words my mother spoke to me were Dr. Bilal Had Died. Outside it’s midnight but this hardly means anything. We eat dinner at 2.30 AM and call this Sehri. Did You Know, my father says to my mother over the mutton karahi, Dr. Bilal Has Died? It Is I, my mother replies, Who Told You This. Over the bicker, my mind is magic, stuck in a place constructed cemented curated with internet fantasy. Here, I am so wasted. Target of cheer. Number one only. Clap Clap at my model body. Ooh Ooh at easy serenades. When this year started, I declared it was the year of my great change. New epiphanies, new bodies, new countries. No more of this that me, blue blue me. When this year started, Clair from the 24/7 helpline told me to choose probability over possibility. Do You Know Anyone In Person, she said, Who Have Died In The Way You Believe You Will Die? Outside, there are nightingales. And a lemon tree full of tiny white flowers. At Least Dr. Bilal Is Getting A Muslim Burial, my mother says, handing me a slice of cooled melon. Fresh. Sweet. Fleshed. Imagine, she continues, An Unnamed You In An Unmarked Pit, Away From Me, And All All All Of This.