A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:

MONDAY 

Sitting in the hospital bed, F looks smaller than usual—a tiny sailor lost at sea. Her face is washed with fluorescent light, and she rustles when the heart monitor beeps every few seconds. I look around us: there are wires and monitors and shuffling feet all around us, but mostly, I see luck—great gobs of it, golden and glittering against the walls. We are in a good hospital. Our medical team is gracious, caring, intelligent. I trust them to care for my child. 

Still, though, I am stuck—frozen—for the entire duration that F is asleep, anesthetized by a medical professional who assures me he will administer only the amount appropriate for her weight and blood pressure, only the amount her heart can take. I recite my favorite poem by Gerald Stern to myself. My child is in safe hands, and I know the only reason why is luck. If life is a gamble and our family is playing the ponies, we’ve already won. 

A few moments before she’s taken into surgery, I change F into her hospital gown. Sensing a moment of transition, she begins to cry. F’s young, but I believe she knows this is the moment before and that none of us, not even her mother, knows when afterwill arrive. She sits still, a stoic little Alice—but her eyes wander curiously, full of wonder even as she prepares to fall down the rabbit hole. F’s gown gathers in folds, impatiens bunched together in a neverending field. This is winning, I remind myself.

If I close my eyes, I can erase this entire hospital from my mind. If I close my eyes, I can picture F in the neverending field, her entire face beaming at a summer breeze. In this field, bees hum around us, hunting for a sweet smell. There is bird song and chatter; the occasional plane flies overhead. In this field, we are together—and no mother ever wonders if her child will wake up. 

TUESDAY

“Each day after school, my husband and I picked up our daughter from daycare and walked over to my parent’s apartment, where they’d have tea and snacks waiting for us. My daughter took her bowl of pistachios or kaju katli, an Indian sweet made of cashews—and settled herself in the small nook between the oven, sink, and refrigerator. There she’d sit cross-legged on the floor, chatting about her school day with my mom. My dad cut fruit—apples, mangos, or guava, sprinkled with salt, pepper, and cumin—and we’d sit on the living room floor, chatting about my school assignments and progress. On some days, dinner would be ready and waiting for us on the kitchen table; on others, I’d join my parents in the kitchen and help finish the preparations. Each evening, without fail, we’d migrate to the small wooden table and eat dinner together—all three generations of us, each with our own set of disappointments and dreams.” 

—From my latest illustrated essay, “The Biggest Dream”, for Issue 38: Ease of Chickpea Magazine. 

WEDNESDAY

On asking yourself what kind of artist you want to be by Fariha Róisín and Generation Gap by Sarah Moss; paintings by Ewelina Bisaga; showing the dissonance between what one says and what one does in visual work by Jillian Tamaki. 

THURSDAY

You shouldn’t get disillusioned when you get knocked back. All you’ve discovered is that the search is difficult, and you still have a duty to keep on searching. —Kazuo Ishiguro

FRIDAY

HEY

C’MON
COME OUT

WHEREVER YOU ARE

WE NEED TO HAVE THIS MEETING
AT THIS TREE

AIN’ EVEN BEEN
PLANTED
YET

—Calling on All Silent Minorities by June Jordan

xx,

M

To sign up for my weekly newsletter, Dear Somebody, please subscribe here.