anyway.
A blighted ovum
known as “anembryonic pregnancy”
happens when an egg
(a fertilized one)
attaches itself to the wall of the uterus,
but the embryo doesn’t develop.
Cells develop to make the pregnancy sac,
but they don’t bother to make the embryo.
Baby Sizes
Mustard seed.
Peppercorn.
Orange lentil.
Raspberry.
Peeled almond.
Cherry.
Green olive.
Fig.
Lime.
Banana.
Squash.
Mango.
Corn.
Coconut.
Pineapple.
Watermelon.
Nurah Haqq
I am a little sister
who was never meant
to be
a BIG
sister.
Skype
When Nana and Nana Abu call,
I tell them the news
news that was once good
now bad.
Nana’s lips get small,
face turns down.
Verily to God we belong
and verily to God we return,
Nana Abu says.
Even though it’s all he says,
his voice,
his words
are pieces
breaking
into the sky
swooping
d
o
w
n
hugging Ammi and me.
Fajr Prayer Before Sunrise
I know it’s bad
because Ammi
doesn’t bother to wake us up early
at the white thread of dawn
to pray.
And I,
the lover of sleep,
sleep sleep sleep,
wake up with tension
nibbling my stomach.
Nana’s Worries
When Nana calls
and asks how my mother is,
I tell her fine alhamdulillah.
I don’t tell her
how she really is.
I think the way Nana
shrinks her mouth,
raises her eyebrows,
sighs,
she knows too.
Swim Meets
My skin
tingles all over
feet flex
arms swing
Coach Kelly
barks
Swim your fastest.
When you do freestyle,
and you’re not breathing for air,
keep your head still.
Make sure your eyes are
at the bottom of the pool—
focused.
Don’t look around
comparing yourself
to others—
especially when you’re in
the middle of a race.
That’ll make you lose your focus!
Got it?
Before thinking,
I pump my fists
and yell
YES!
Stahr giggles.
Coach Kelly’s mouth
smiles wide.
I like your energy, Nurah!
Where Is My Mother?
Before, Ammi would
come to our swim meets
and watch me
always finishing right in the middle.
Before, Ammi would
come to our swim meets
and watch Owais swim
always finishing first.
Now, Ammi doesn’t come.
She says her head hurts.
Does her stomach hurt too?
Does it miss the baby?
Almost Neighbors
Stahr lives only 8 houses away from me
but she doesn’t know how long she’s going to live there.
My mom is looking for a place away from my dad . . .
Stahr eats dinner at 5
and we eat dinner at 8
and tea at 5.
So when her mom is late
from work,
Stahr comes over
and waits to eat my mother’s samosas,
which are perfect hot triangles—
golden-brown pastries full
of spices, meat, and oil.
But lately,
my father is still
at work
making money
working hard to keep
“job security,”
and my mother stays in her room.
Stahr asks
When are we going to have samosas?
Where’s your mom?
I let the words slip out
heavy
My mother
had a miscarriage.
And Stahr who has too many freckles
and too many words
stays silent.
The Next Day
Stahr’s mom
rings the bell
at 5:33 p.m.,
and we still don’t have samosas,
or tea,
or anything really,
and sorry hovers
at the edge of my tongue.
But before I can say anything,
Here’s a casserole, she says.
I’ve never had a casserole before,
and when I peek at it
underneath the foil
the yellow layers
muddle me even more.
She asks to see my mother
Ammi, someone is here to see you . . .
And Stahr, who is just Stahr,
not a big sister,
or a small sister,
or any sister,
whispers,
Four.
My mom had
four miscarriages
before she had me.
Teatime
When Stahr’s mother
is over,
samosas are fried quickly,
jaldi se
tea brewed,
and my mother is not in her room
anymore.
Plans of Penelope
Monday Wednesday Friday
are the days that Stahr’s mother visits.
Penelope,
whose hair is orange,
but here they call it red.
And instead of samosas
they nibble on Munchkins
that she brings
and I see my mother
becoming who she once was.
Staying Together
Fajr
the prayer of dawn
Zuhr
the prayer of noon
Asr
the prayer of afternoon
Maghrib
the prayer of sunset
Isha
the prayer of night
Once more,
my mother starts to wake us up
for Fajr
and I don’t feel
the tension nibbling
anymore.
The other prayers
we pray together
and stay together
too.
The Surprise
Baba,
whose hours
are not so long anymore,
now that we are having teatime again,
now that my mother is almost herself again,
tells me he has a surprise for me.
Two big brushes.
two cans of paint,
the grayest blue,
to match the ocean waves,
he says,
and a rusty gold orange,
to match the sand.
Baba knows
I miss the beach in Karachi,
and am tired of the walls
white white white,
so we begin,
and now whenever I enter my room,
I hear the waves,
and smell the sand.
Baba hangs up hooks
with a hammer
and a bearded smile.
For your clothes
and medals
one day!
Leftover Paint
Our “just right” house
no longer has creepy black shutters,
but shutters that match the ocean.
Art Class
When I doodle,
my mind forgets
all that is happening
around me,
the bad
and the good
and the in-between.
My doodles
become sketches.
And when I write
in my journal,
the words and pictures
play and flirt
with each other.
I linger
over the paper
the way my mother
lingers over the mirror.
My Art Teacher
Ms. White
gives us a project
to draw a self-portrait.
I am forced to look
in the mirror
and draw, draw, draw.
Shadows of the eye,
bushiness of the brow,
hollows of the bone.
B+ is the grade I get.
Our next project:
Make a collage of a special place
that has meaning to you.
So I glue, cut, draw
crushed pink tile
hungry green plants
bold blue pool
by Nana and Nana Abu’s garden
and get an A.
I wonder
what was wrong
with the picture
of me?
For the final project
draw yourself
for a self-portrait
but with something unexpected.
The class grumbles.
She pushes up her glasses
holds up a finger.
Draw what feels good.
Surprise me . . .
The Words of Ms. White
I won’t remember
your name
long after you’re gone,
but if you have a piece
of art that’s memorable,
I will always remember your work.
Always.
I want to be remembered.
Swim Meets
Owais and I
are used to Ammi
not coming anymore
but last time
Baba came,
and Ammi too.
Ammi’s face was tight
Baba’s face was loose
but when Owais won,
her face became
loose and lovely
and I wished that
I was a winner too.
Swim Meet
If I watch the ways of winners,
watch them hard enough,
maybe I will learn.
Once Owais swims lazily
in second place.
Way behind.
I am growing bored watching.
But suddenly near the end,
his pace
picks up . . .
I gasp as
his arms
slice the water
feet a blur
and suddenly
he is in first place.
I am hooked.
How did you do that?
My features incredulous
It was easy.
He shakes off the water
with a smile.
Now that he is back in the water,
his dimpled smiles come easy.
Too easy.
It’s not fair.
Does he know how badly
I want to win?
Extra Sleep
Is like scraps of frosting
to me.
Irresistible.
But now on weekends
at the white thread of dawn,
I no longer sleep in.
Instead I head to the pool—
Stahr sometimes joins me.
We dive in
and practice.
Easy for Owais,
but not for me.
I do it anyway.
You need to work on your
technique,
says Coach Kelly.
I learn to slice through the water
not slap it.
I learn to make my feet
flutter into a kick.
I learn to breathe
every 3 strokes.
I learn toextendmy arms,
catch the water at the
