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It’s a Saturday morning, and she’s standing by the sink, peeling onions in our small, sunlit kitchen. A ray of light streams in from the East, illuminating particles of dust that hang, suspended in mid-air around her shoulders, like a halo of gold. I sit at the table, fingers curled quietly around a mug of tea.
— and the sound of the knife against coarse wood mingles in with that of running water, and birds twittering through willow trees. Her back is to me, but she must have heard me think, because she turns to me, smiles — These are the moments we fought for. x
ART by ZAINAB HUSAIN WORDS by LISA SHEN
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SOAPBOX
The windows over the sink open outward, like a book, inviting in a soft spring breeze
