The Path

A harsh new land, lush sunlight burns a skin cancer, bleak trees, dark, and thorny beautiful, like piano-fingers, breezy summers, dry and humid, vast, dusty fields infrequent rainfall, apart from mush, not much grows in this inhospitable weather which breeds tougher crowder.

No jobs on this new land, unemployment, higher than ever, rejection letters piles up on desks, getting bigger and bigger with hundreds and thousands of cobwebs laying crisscrossed, inflation hits rock bottom as job availability become fewer and far between, such is the state of affairs when I land here nine days ago, with a child in my lap with all the time in the world.

One stormy evening, though, grey clouds hang over every tree and every pointy shack, I am on a job search, tired from it all, the weary walks and the hard knocks, I come home, under such a tree—this stark tree, with some fallen, yellow leaves nestle underneath where we burrow, I cover my baby up in a torn, fuzzy blanket, I protect from the elements much greater, for us such fanciful specs on the expansive oceans, beneath the ceaseless skies, the wind’s ferocity, I breathe and struggle blanketing my tiny tot.

Twisted knots, roots up this tree deep down which seeps into the ground, and locks in fruity juices, this empty tree, our home, only the stark branches grow over our heads, through which a waxing moon bleeds, the baby wakes up, cries from cold, and hunger, the moon moves closer, it glazes and it twinkles, until baby falls off to sleep again, in the morning, I’m still snoring, but baby is up and smiling, the raging storm has passed, the sun is streaming through, I rise, I walk again this new day, crushing, dry, cracked leaves underneath my bare foot, while nesting birds flock, and frolic over us.

Through thick and thin, a pathway is forged for the baby to grow on it, I explore more jobs, some more challenging than others, at par with life’s binding injunctions, there are rules which aren’t always at odds, pretty wild, when desperation pays off under this sinking tree, also shelters us, builds character, arms me with fortitude, and keeps hopes up, not out of the woods yet, for this journey is long, beset with powerful resistance, huge leafy tree pushes through a grave, it takes sustenance from the dead.

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Mehreen Ahmed

Mehreen Ahmed is a Bangladeshi-born Australian novelist. Her novels have been acclaimed/recognised by Midwest Book Review and Drunken Druid Editor's Choice. Her short stories have won contests, Pushcart, James Tait, a Best Small Fiction nomination, and five Best of the Net nominations. Mehreen recommends Médecins Sans Frontières.