I am from age-old pickle jars, and dusty ancestral bookshelves
I am from dried rose petals sneaking out of a love letter, and late-night ice cream

that leaves you with a sore throat
 

I am from the 19 houses in 15 districts, none of which could become

"my home, sweet home"
 

I am from the fruity summer breeze, the plea of petrichor, the bright autumn sky,

the crimson of spring
I am from marigold, dahlia, tuberose, frangipani
I am from the mountain rows afar as though giant waves rising from earth
 

I am from honor, from pride, from tiresome might
I am from vacillating faith—disbelief, hope—despair

I am from eye floaters and déjà-rêvés, anxious stims and idiosyncrasies

I am from the smell of spice, rice morsels and fish gravy, and the stubborn

stain of turmeric

I am from the clumsy photo frames never hung on the wall

I am from a preterm birth with a termless soul
I am from the unfaltering loyalty of a love that never returned
 

I am from a space yet to be discovered

Maliha Huq is an engineer who loves reading books and (sometimes) enjoys writing essays and fiction.