Titas Mukherjee
In Secret
“I wanted to be loved so desperately, that my fingers shook with it
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I am not beautiful
But I could be.”
- Emily Palermo
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My eyes linger on the hands held on streets bustling with a contained energy, my cheeks flush a furious red when lips meet in greeting or in goodbye, and my body turns away at the simplicity of the words “I love you.”
I pretend it isn’t real. I pretend love is a show put on by those who are unhappy, those depending on someone else for a contentment they cannot offer to themselves.
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My mother reminds me: love is improper, love is poor, love is for women on a dark path. My sister follows her sentiment, shadowing words she has yet to learn the meaning of. She strips herself of an unknown that she has yet to feel.
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My father berates me: love is promiscuous, love is immoral, and love is not for me. He asserts that if I am found with my heart blossoming in this alien feeling, then I will lose the freedom to even feel. He asserts that if I lose the ideologies of playing wife and mothering children drilled into me from my youth for a man who cannot comprehend the importance of living up to that role, then I will have painted myself in the permanence of disappointment, of a mistake.
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In front of them, I pretend: I pretend that love is cheap, garish, that it is an unworldly sin. Resentment paves its way into me upon the sight of ivory dresses adorned with lace, a beauty made for women who know no better. My eyes avert themselves from the glaring display of kisses exchanged quietly in the beating illumination of the sun.
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I pretend that love is made for those who are unlike me, those who have no part in a play coerced into their lives from their first shaky breath of existence. I pretend that love is not for me.
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At night, the facade drops, it breaks as slowly as a heart parting from its first infatuation. I dream of a love so heavy that it thrusts me into a want to search for someone who I can cling to for it. I dream of a love so foreign that it leaves me gasping and panting for something I can only watch from afar. I dream of a lover whose love is as deep as the pitch black of the unknown outside of Earth, one who loves like he separates oil from water. A lover who will never furnish me with the sweet nothings delicately whispered into my ear, one whose hands will never grasp mine as he leads me out of a chapel traced with an aroma of carnations, a lover who I cannot have.
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My eyes water at the hands held gently, my cheeks moisten when lips meet in greeting or in goodbye, and my body wracks in silent sobs at the beautiful simplicity of the words “I love you.”
Short Lived
“You still crave lemonade, but the taste doesn’t satisfy you as much as it used to. You still crave summer, but sometimes you mean summer, five years ago.”
- Alida Nugent
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“Thank you.”
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It is a signal for the plates on the table to be washed up and racked away, for the mats littered with grains of rice to be piled neatly, and for the food to be quietly packed to avoid spoiling. It is a signal of unity, of summer. It is a signal for when my family can gather and feast for the three months full of sickeningly sweet fruit and sweat.
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June comes slowly: the sun’s bright and beating illumination makes way past the sheer curtains, and the ceiling fan does little to fight away at the sweat beading all over. The season begins in the kitchen when dishes clatter on the stove, when an aroma of flavorful assortments brims the air, and when fruitful chatter is accompanied by a late night breeze. Summer begins at eight o’clock, when my sister is called downstairs to haul plates of food to the table, when my mother's calloused hands stir and concoct pots of meals that fill our stomachs well into the next morning of heat, and when my father waits at the table for his girls. Summer begins with dinners at a table showered with dust from its scarce use.
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July arrives with celebration: red, white, and blue paints clear skies, and fireworks play its music of explosive bangs. In July, summer continues in the charcoal stains of the grills holding marinated meat and the sour corn lathered with salt and butter. Summer goes on at nine o’clock, when my sister falters inside with staggering legs from running across the fields of green blades with her friends. It goes on when my mother badgers me to smother my hands with colorful seasonings and an unpleasant scent of meat. Summer goes on when my father takes part in our routine, soiling his hands for a meal, helping his girls with dinner. The table is littered with pieces of darkened meat and its chairs are pushed out.
July still doesn’t stop the sun from its torture on slowly burning skin and the sticky sweat that has become an all too intimate warm-weathered friend.
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August rushes in: slowly, the sun slows down on its hurling heat and night starts sooner than later. In August, summer ends at eight o’clock when the skies begin shading its canvas with an eerily familiar black paint. It ends when the late night breeze turns itself into its customary chill, signaling for the coming of fallen leaves and changing colors. Summer ends when the wooden table decorated in my home is free of plates patterned with food, when the dining room lacks its warm chatter, and when dinner becomes an affair in which everyone eats when they can.
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“Thank you.”
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It is a painful indication that dinner is only for the three months full of sickeningly sweet fruit and sweat.