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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() My halabeoji’s urn was marbly like a flower vase. Days before he died, when he needed to stand, umma and I helped him up, umma’s cheek against his skinny arm while Aunt Jiyoo told me to stay outside his room. She said he had lost half his body weight and he looked as light as a child, how she bathed him in warm water. Halabeoji’s urn was small and cold,
it began to warm in umma’s hands as she held it, under the blue fir tree, stroking it. It must have made that kind of gritty iron noise when umma and Aunt Jiyoo pushed it onto the shelf. Halmeoni, appa and my brothers would be here any minute and umma wanted to see her father’s ashes, as if then she would finally get to know him. In the cold charnel house, with everyone else present, umma worked at the top, it gave and slipped off and there–, the actual matter of halabeoji’s being: small, unrecognizable; stained fragments of bones like pieces of varnished wood; his wrinkled fingers, which used to braid my hair had turned as white as flour. Umma looked at the swirl of shards: was that a bone of halabeoji’s sturdy arms, was that from the pelvis he bent to carry me on his back, was that from his feet? Umma looked at him, photographs and ashes were all that he left– ashes as white and fleecy as a hairball of threaded yarn. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
May 2023
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