i don't remember being small

Momena Khan

i was sitting beside her, my not-sister. we were eating oranges and she was laughing with her whole mouth open like joy had never betrayed her. i held my fruit too carefully, too clean, trying not to let the juice run down my wrists.

she said, you never eat like you're hungry. i said, i don’t think i am.

i don’t remember being small. there are photos of me, hair sticking out in all directions, one sock off, holding a stick like it was a sword. i must have been wild, once. i must have screamed and reached for things. but the memory of that version of me has been folded up so many times, the edges have worn off. i only know her through photographs.

i used to think gentleness was my personality. it took me ten years to realize it was fear.

when i was twelve i stopped raising my voice. stopped correcting people when they said my name wrong. i learned the art of shrinking, i mistook stillness for safety. but safety is not always safe. sometimes it is just hiding in better lighting.

she said, you can take the last orange. i said, you can have it. i always say that. i always let them have it. but i wanted it too. i did.

i think i’m just waiting for someone to notice.

i think i’m just waiting for someone to say, take it.

i think i’m just waiting to be small again.

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