The hiatus has been long, it’s quite difficult to engage in writing in that way with the life I have. My journal has been a luxurious escape to my many ramblings – an unemployed wife, a daughter of two equally stubborn mothers,a citizen of an abused and abusive country. It’s more convenient to complain, it’s innate in us women. So the beautiful things dissipate, I simply forget about them.
I was looking into reading her poetry today; the last time, we were, yes, “a bunch of weirdos who held poetry readings wearing all black and reciting poems by the candle light”. CWG ’98. Sixteen – that was her poem. It was a dream she had, a window to her past life, she said. And look at her now, a burning phoenix straight out of a timid, curious high school smile.
So there goes the history of four years of flunking majors year in and year out, tighter curfews, wasted time. And the end and end of it, they couldn’t get me to step a foot into med school (not that any school aside from Fatima seems excited to take me in anyway). Can’t and won’t waste my stepdad’s money on constantly flunking subjects. So the family gangs me up into taking nursing after grad. It’s the only lucrative work in the world, why won’t they (second note on sarcasm)? Either that or I’m out of the house.
And really, I can’t see where studying AB Lit fits in that picture. I don’t think it will. We are star-crossed lovers, writing and I. We always have been. I wrote poems and journal entries starting 5th grade, my mother of all people knew of that spark and knew she had to put the flame out before it got uncontrollable.