By Adam Khan
ہم انگلستان دیکھیں گے۔ [We Shall See England.]
One way ticket (for a one way trip.) I’ve writing to do, work that’s been assigned completion — I’ve a weight on my chest and an excess of testosterone not nearly enough for security in a body’s politics. I scribe Sir Syed Ahmad Khan into my journal, sling my bag on my shoulder, shuffle my feet for nerves. Lay with me under this tree. Fruit for the weary traveller. Dates and camels, David. I’ve lived lifetimes. I have seen worse sights than this (that’s Homer.) Crease in the middle of your forehead; how are the kids? When was the last time we saw each other before the imminent heat-death of the universe? That was ages ago — in the nineties? Back when all I worried about was the roar of the stream outside of my house? Back when the best way to touch a man was to lift him, scraped-knees, from a bike accident on the gravel? Back when a Friday call to prayer was the screen between sections and my heart between my teeth in supplication, my heart in my shoes when we flew in to that forever home? Westerly winds, Auroran skies, my Aurora broke my nose with a baseball bat once, but that’s if I get married, David. Hey, batter, swing. Now take a swing at this one: what spans a mountain range with Maker’s Mark in his hand? That’s a man on a mission, that’s the moment before Ramadan, no fasting here if not for fasting’s sake; if it aches, sleep it away. If I’m missing, write a letter. Sincerely, your Johnathan! Where does he begin where I do not end? Show me the place you grew up in. I am not afraid of loss; I do not worry for time or death or disrespect; I honour myself in his mere presence; hold that thought, hold right there until we work this one out, hold anything but hold my hand. چی څھ کری ھغھ بھ ریبی ۔ [What goes around, comes around.]
Yes, I knew him when he was younger.
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