Life Is Funny Read Online Free Page A
Author: E. R. Frank
what Iâm supposed to believe, but the person Iâd normally ask isnât here anymore.
*Â Â *Â Â *
I worry about what happened to him. First I worry that heâs somewhere out there and can see everything that Iâm doing and hear everything Iâm saying. That his spirit is like eyes and ears of air. That if he thinks there are moments when Iâm not missing him and thinking about him, his feelings would be hurt. Which is why I try to whisper his name at least every half an hour, why his photograph has to be admired every night in my closet, behind a stack of blankets and with Nifâs pen flashlight. Why I excuse myself from every class every day at least once to pray in the girlsâ bathroom for him, why when Iâm alone Iâll speak out loud to him, hoping he will hear.
I miss you, Sarim, I hope it didnât hurt too much, Sarim, I know youâre not crazy, Sarim.
I have to say his name with each new sentence so that he will know itâs him Iâm talking to.
Then, other times, I worry that heâs nowhere. Blackness. Not even blackness. Nothingness.
*Â Â *Â Â *
Sarim moved to Brooklyn, across the street from my family, just before the school year began. The first time I spoke to him was two weeks later, on his twenty-sixth birthday, when he had a party for the whole neighborhood. He charmed all the parents and the grandparents with his quiet, small-smile face and with stories of growing up Muslim in France and then returning to Pakistan to discover an entire world of boys just like him: dark-skinned and praying five times a day. Even my mother and father let him make them laugh and told him to knock on our door anytime he might need milk, bread, or company.
After the women had swept away any sign of biscuit crumbs or crumpled napkins, after almost everyone had left with sugar stomachs and tea breath, Nif and I and three kids from the next block stayed to play one last game of hide-and-seek. Iâd ducked into the front coat closet to find Sarim already there, grinning at me through thick wool sleeves and dangling knit scarves, pulling me in before I could blink. We talked for a long time before we heard my brother clomping toward us. I forgot all about the rules.
Sarim told me he was a graduate student studying law. He told me heâd grown up in a small town near Paris, the only child of a widow. He didnât remember his father, who died in some kind of accident when Sarim was only three months old. Sarim asked me all about the eighth grade and about my family and how I felt when I left Pakistan. He talked to me as though I were an adult; he listened as though everything I said were actually important. He was the first one who made me feel like me.
On the short walk home that night, Nif pulled me back from my parents and older brothers and threatened to tell my father about the closet. I shouldnât have even talked to Sarim. Shouldnât have shut myself up inside a box with him where our legs could bump and our faces almost touched in the dark. Shame filled my throat and ears like a hot swarm of bees. If youâre a part of my family, you want to be the most perfect you can be. You want your parents always to lift their heads high when they speak about you to their friends. You want always to know yourself what you do and donât deserve and where you belong. To have all of that, itâs very important to follow the rules. Itâs important not to question your father or husband or any holy man or to ask for explanations. You must trust the wisdom of the men. You must follow their wisdom at all times. The embarrassment my parents would feel when they discovered how terribly Iâd behaved would sit on our home like a wet stink. They might send me back to Pakistan.
âIf it is too difficult for you to follow our laws here in this country, Hanif,â my father had once said after Nif had been spotted by a neighbor sneaking
*Â Â *Â Â *
I worry about what happened to him. First I worry that heâs somewhere out there and can see everything that Iâm doing and hear everything Iâm saying. That his spirit is like eyes and ears of air. That if he thinks there are moments when Iâm not missing him and thinking about him, his feelings would be hurt. Which is why I try to whisper his name at least every half an hour, why his photograph has to be admired every night in my closet, behind a stack of blankets and with Nifâs pen flashlight. Why I excuse myself from every class every day at least once to pray in the girlsâ bathroom for him, why when Iâm alone Iâll speak out loud to him, hoping he will hear.
I miss you, Sarim, I hope it didnât hurt too much, Sarim, I know youâre not crazy, Sarim.
I have to say his name with each new sentence so that he will know itâs him Iâm talking to.
Then, other times, I worry that heâs nowhere. Blackness. Not even blackness. Nothingness.
*Â Â *Â Â *
Sarim moved to Brooklyn, across the street from my family, just before the school year began. The first time I spoke to him was two weeks later, on his twenty-sixth birthday, when he had a party for the whole neighborhood. He charmed all the parents and the grandparents with his quiet, small-smile face and with stories of growing up Muslim in France and then returning to Pakistan to discover an entire world of boys just like him: dark-skinned and praying five times a day. Even my mother and father let him make them laugh and told him to knock on our door anytime he might need milk, bread, or company.
After the women had swept away any sign of biscuit crumbs or crumpled napkins, after almost everyone had left with sugar stomachs and tea breath, Nif and I and three kids from the next block stayed to play one last game of hide-and-seek. Iâd ducked into the front coat closet to find Sarim already there, grinning at me through thick wool sleeves and dangling knit scarves, pulling me in before I could blink. We talked for a long time before we heard my brother clomping toward us. I forgot all about the rules.
Sarim told me he was a graduate student studying law. He told me heâd grown up in a small town near Paris, the only child of a widow. He didnât remember his father, who died in some kind of accident when Sarim was only three months old. Sarim asked me all about the eighth grade and about my family and how I felt when I left Pakistan. He talked to me as though I were an adult; he listened as though everything I said were actually important. He was the first one who made me feel like me.
On the short walk home that night, Nif pulled me back from my parents and older brothers and threatened to tell my father about the closet. I shouldnât have even talked to Sarim. Shouldnât have shut myself up inside a box with him where our legs could bump and our faces almost touched in the dark. Shame filled my throat and ears like a hot swarm of bees. If youâre a part of my family, you want to be the most perfect you can be. You want your parents always to lift their heads high when they speak about you to their friends. You want always to know yourself what you do and donât deserve and where you belong. To have all of that, itâs very important to follow the rules. Itâs important not to question your father or husband or any holy man or to ask for explanations. You must trust the wisdom of the men. You must follow their wisdom at all times. The embarrassment my parents would feel when they discovered how terribly Iâd behaved would sit on our home like a wet stink. They might send me back to Pakistan.
âIf it is too difficult for you to follow our laws here in this country, Hanif,â my father had once said after Nif had been spotted by a neighbor sneaking
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