GROW NUMB
WORDS & ART by AYESHA UMAIR
The women of the forest would walk along the edges of the thick bushes, past the clear water, stopping to admire an occasional flower or smooth stone. They would walk together, wrapping cord around shafts to make arrows, making garments, tanning furs. Their mouths would burst with laughter, berries, and stories. They would pound cedar leaves to relieve colds. They would collect twine to build baskets. And they knew the forest well. And the forest knew them well. They knew of the mountains nearby, and which face was the most dangerous to climb up. They knew where the dormouse slept during the winter. And, most importantly, they would always warn each other of danger. “Do not go near that lake.” “Why not?”
“It is salty; no fish can live in it and washing clothes in it makes them dry up.” “Oh.”
Caravans would come by, close to the edge of the forest, to trade goods and take the furs to faraway villages that only existed in the women’s stories. They would buy books, daggers, and necklaces
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