The Room Within Me by Sheniz Janmohamed

When stars break open in your eyes and days fall into oblivion, when cold cracks through window panes, when oaks stiffen into winter, when quiet walks in the springtime are distant memories, when the colour of almond blossoms is suspect —

The snow grey, the city grey, the sky grey —

Move.

Move in these circles of silence.

There is nothing to know but this.

Let your gloved hands pull up your collars. Accept that tears sometimes freeze before they fall.

The knife of the wind carves its way into your lungs.

Heaving, you wait for the light to change. This life to change. For the person in front of you to move so you can walk past them, so you can thaw yourself indoors.

And there you stand, your eyes demanding sleep, your hands dry and tingling.

Yet you can’t bring yourself to take off your boots, to untie your hair, to unbuckle your belt, to sleep in the softness of your blanket, to huddle in the corner where two walls meet, to imagine days that are warmer, where there are no sirens, where sweet coffee is not a substitute for warmth.

You recall the simple joys of childhood: pocketing an empty snail shell, chewing frozen green grapes, drawing stars in notebooks, sleeping in your mother’s lap while uncles and aunts and grandparents became nostalgic over cups of chai.

The smooth granite stones from the school playground, the maple wing nuts you peeled, the fuchsia petals you rubbed on the pavement until their dye stained your hands.

Sitting on the grass, letting the sun stream until your hair became hot, running barefoot in a garden where there are no snakes — only the occasional sharp sting of a pebble between the toes.

Where is that room where you opened windows to let the air in? to hear the subtle swaying of branches? to dance yourself dizzy?

Where is that room, where paint strokes scarred the white desk, where you hid toffee wrappers in the sock drawer?

Where is that room, where you covered your head with a rose pink pacheri, where you lip-synched in the mirror?

Now there are only walls.

Where is that girl who believed in light that is not found through darkness, as it is now?

She knew the scent of spring rain, the texture of wet mud, the stickiness of pine needles.

She knew the present is the only gift she could keep.

Sheniz Janmohamed (MFA) is a poet, artist educator and nature artist whose work has been featured in various venues across the world, including the Jaipur Literature Festival and the Aga Khan Museum. She is also the author of two collections of poetry: Bleeding Light (Mawenzi House, 2010) and Firesmoke (Mawenzi House, 2014). She is currently completing her third collection of poetry. To learn more, visit: www.shenizjanmohamed.com