By Sana Agarwal
ageing is the most paradoxical phenomenon
i say thisthat because today it feels peaceful to be drifting pastfrom the days gone by
i don’t know if I’m courageous enough to call it healing
a part of growing old is knowing that not all good bears from the burnt, that not all of us rise from the ashes like the phoenix
i’m entangled in this paradox like a carefully crafted sentence
because i miss the deep, settling happiness of a single mango
to breathe the world in through your lungs, one giggle at a time
i would be naive to say i saw it for its face value as a child, but perhaps its tenderness
tenderness borne from the cracks of my parent’s home, the evening shenanigans of an apartment complex, the dusty chalkboards of a classroom
for many years i’ve practised the act of feeling as synonymous withto devouring a pomegranate, you have to patiently sit on the table stools, peeal its surface resiliently to get to the ripe seeds
eat it whole, like you’ve lived for it
then wash your crimson-stained hands clean
a lot of what I’ve learnted about tenderness has beenis while washing my hands clean of crimson
like a proud martyr on some days
a shackle of bones on others
growing old is breaking the paradox
learning that tenderness is not crimson, nor is the reward for it
luckily it hasn’t been tainted yet, only my hands have
i don’t ceremoniously caress my suffering now, burning the body is for the dead and i’ve lived
the cicatrices may not be my medal, but they are still my skin;, after all, survival is an act of acceptance
so i’d home both because
i know now
tenderness doesn’t barter
It is not borne out of blood, but perhaps some of that mango, maybe your parent’s home on a good day; I’ve grown out of pomegranates though, the ones from the other week have maggots on them now, they after all are a carefully crafted sentence.
Illustration by Chiara Guigou
