People, places, things 
I do not know how I remember 
I remember summers by the smell of mangoes 
I remember springs by the smell of flowers 
I was born on the twenty-second day of Srabon 
The fourth month of the Bangla calendar 
I remember grief by the smell of rain. 
In the summertime, 
My mother cuts me a plate full of ripe mangoes 
She brings it to my room 
Hoping I would talk to her. 
My mother, a woman in her late fifties
Leans on my wooden doorframe 
As I stare into her ageing eyes. 
Her hair, whiter than the winter morning fog
Freckles scattered across her flushed cheeks
Like constellations in the Milky Way  
Her bone-weary gait, like a soldier awaiting to return home 
I wonder if she was always my mother 
Was she born to be my mother?
Who was she when she was twenty-three and young? 
Were her eyes always filled with worldly dilemmas and what to cook for dinner?
Has it ever sparkled like stars after a new moon? 
Did she ever cut herself a plate full of mangoes?
What were the things she worried about before she was my mother?
Did she find me in a dream? 
Begged God to send me her way?
I stare at my mother, a woman in her late fifties 
My mind starts to wonder yet again, 
Who am I? 
Who will I be at fifty-six? 
Was I born to be your daughter, mother? 
Will I always be your daughter, mother? 
People, places, things 
I do not know how I remember 
I remember my mother by her soft, and warm hands 
Her orna that smells like my entire life
And love, by a plate full of ripe mangoes. 

Jannatul Naeem Tasmiah is a student of English Literature at Jahangirnagar University.