TWO / ITHNAN

Jannah Yusuf Al-Jamil

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My ma hates it when things take up too much space. She is a vicious, vivacious sort
             of cleaner—she’ll wake up one day, scrub down the bathrooms, and we’ll know
she’s in a bad mood. I can’t bear concentrated mess, either—it makes me anxious, and
             then that makes me feel pathetic. I ponder what is learned and I ponder what is inherited
and with my ma, it sometimes feels like it’s both. She taught me how to make dal and
             pan fried fish in chili paste and she taught me how to be a woman. She did 
only one of those things right. I make a lovely lunch, one that my grandmothers back
             in the ancestral village would compliment me on. ‘Back’ in the village—yeah,
that’s right, we’re always looking back, straining head over shoulders, squinting 
             into the past. But at least we can make a proper biryani. Or, at least, Ma can—
she still hasn’t taught me yet. I feel like she still hasn’t taught me a lot of things. I could never
             call my parents by their first names; that seems to suggest equals, and I know that
I am always by my parent’s feet—the Prophet said that was where heaven was, by the 
             mother’s foot. When I was little, I would lay on the ground and squint at Ma’s
socked toes while she prayed, trying to find heaven. I am still trying to find heaven. Tell
             me where it is, Ma. I’m looking. I named myself after Eden. I hope I see you there.
Every daughter is the culmination of their mother’s mistakes. I look 
             the most like my ma out of my sisters. Sometimes, from afar, people mistake us
for each other. I wish I could be her. Sometimes I wonder if she wishes she could be me. We
            are both made of the same fire—the kind that women have to temper so they can be heard
without being too loud. I am erratic. She is caring control. She hates it when
            things take up too much space. Sometimes I’m surprised that she still doesn’t hate me.