This piece may be dust coated and fairly old but Zainab’s memory sure isn’t.
Because you know, when I imagine an eight year old inking her farewell, I conjure up images of tiny hands coloring on frayed paper boats with broken yellow crayons. I summon up hazel eyed goodbyes and glum flitting smiles. I conjure up flickering candles and tiny leather boots.
I conjure up wasted Polaroids and bated breath. I conjure up bottled letters thrown into the great voids of the sea and the last place that broke my heart. I conjure up cracks in gray pavements and water colors settling on a canvas, creating a kaleidoscope of their own. I conjure up ripped constellated skies and the tissue box my dad handed me everytime I was sad and crying as a child. I conjure up ripples in bluish green lakes and empty promises. I conjure up the tears that refused to leave a mother’s cheek and crystallized right there on her skin ivory.