I thought about all the things I had left unfinished. A copy of The Death of Ivan Ilyich with the corner folded inward, splayed on its belly. A mutilated bottle of coconut shampoo turned upside down to get the last bit out. A birthday card I bought three months early and never mailed. A folk song I wrote that ends before the chorus. I kept telling myself I would get around to it.
I have become very good at almost getting around to things. I opened the refrigerator and found a lemon wrinkling in the drawer. I pressed my thumb into it and felt the yellow skin give. I threw it away. The kitchen was a shroud. The refrigerator croaked like senile frogs. Buried somewhere deep inside the walls, a pipe was groaning and sighing like a train. I stood there with the refrigerator door open, letting the cold air gather around my feet. The light above the stove had been burned out for months, so the only illumination came from the shelves: a carton of milk, a container full of egg curry from last Sunday, a jar of spicy pickles, half a purple onion wrapped in plastic, a bowl of sticky rice I had forgotten about until it smelled faintly sweet.
My grandmother used to do this before she died. Sometimes, she would close the door and stand in the dark. Sometimes, she would open it again. I used to think she was hungry. Eleven summers ago, I asked her what she was looking for. Nothing, she mumbled. Then, she laughed, though I don’t remember what was funny. Often, she would stand in the kitchen at night, a thick wool shawl hanging loosely around her neck, eating unsweetened Greek yogurt directly from the package, looking into the refrigerator as if something better might appear. I wonder what she was waiting for. I wonder if she knew. I wonder if anyone does.
This was written by our contributing writer, Zoha Kashif.
Image Source: Pexels, Renthel Cueto
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