I.

"I feel honoured to be in your august company," the beaming guest exclaimed to his hosts. This strange use of the familiar word sparked my precocious curiosity, leading to a new challenge posed to my mother to appease my inquisitiveness.

"It means important, dear. Mama works for very respectable people," an explanation I countered with another question.

"Is the month August important then, Mama?"

"It is important to me because you were born in August, silly!" Mama responded, a note of laughter decorating her soft voice.

August arrived undecided, accompanied by the scorching sun on some days while releasing the infamous petrichor of the English downpours on others. On my birthday, the damp smell of rain interspersed with the sweet aroma of Mama's freshly baked strawberry cake traversed the hallways. On a makeshift table in a corner of the kitchen, Mama inserted eight small candles into the immaculately levelled cake surface. I wondered why we had not arranged our setup on the sprawling dining table instead, as had been the case with all birthday celebrations at the mansion.

A shadow suddenly loomed at the kitchen door. Mrs Hudson towered over our seemingly permanent bowing statures, a disapproving grimace forming on her face. "Wrap this little show up. Our guests from Yorkshire will arrive shortly."

And so, I knew. Regardless of how much Mama laboured for the household, we would never be worthy of the seats meant for august presence.

by Ramisha Rahman

II. 

"Why don't you celebrate your birthday?"

"Why don't you rejoice despite getting so many heartfelt messages and wonderful gifts?"

People ask with immense curiosity. These questions echo through the years, refrains that tug at the frayed edges of my heart. And every time, I offer a smile—a facade to hide the trauma.

Every year, the calendar flips to August, and I feel the weight settle upon my shoulders. It's not just the heat that suffocates, it's the memories—the way they cling like cobwebs, impossible to brush away. "You should have a party," they say, their voices filled with well-meaning cheer. "Celebrate life!"

But how do I explain? How do I unravel the threads of grief that bind me?

"My father died on my birthday," I whisper, as if I were sharing a secret. "August 5th, 2011."

Their smiles falter, and I see the pity in their eyes. They don't understand—the way that date is etched into my mind, the way it haunts my dreams.

The cake remains untouched, candles flickering in vain. The phone stays silent; no calls from distant relatives singing "Happy Birthday." Instead, I visit the graveyard. I trace his name on the cold marble, my fingers trembling. I tell him about my year—the victories, the heartaches, the regrets, the mundane moments.

"I miss you," I mumble, as if only he can hear. "I wish you were here to celebrate with me, like in the old days."

by Nahid Hassan

III.

The closer August 13th comes, the sadder my mother becomes. I can sense it; she spends longer praying, and her eyes are almost always red. She keeps crying—I know, though never in front of me. I have always seen my father as a calm, composed man, but he has also become much more eccentric nowadays. Just today, he tried to stuff a lot of stationery in my suitcase. I told him it would be over the weight limit but could not get him to listen, as if the USA does not have stationery!

August 13th. I put my suitcases in the car. I packed 25 years of my life here in these two suitcases! When I was about to enter the terminal, my mother hugged me hard, I could feel my shirt dampened from her tears. My father, not a man of many words, just said, "Be well; study hard there." I knew a storm was raging inside him, but such are fathers.

The plane took off, and I saw Dhaka from the windows. I never knew Dhaka was so pretty until then.

Years have passed since that August came. Many Augusts have passed since then. I have gained degrees but lost my home. I gained money but lost people to spend it on. I gained a life here but also lost one back there.

August. The giver, or the taker?

by Abrar Zarif Abir