growing up my favourite lullaby was the constant
bells of an ambulance pulling through scarborough
my father once told me that the sirens meant that
the person hurt still had a chance of living so i
slept every night comfortably knowing that someone
was going to see the next day, even if it wasn’t always
true.
my mother told me that on the plane ride from
bangladesh to canada me and my sisters cried
the entire time, and every time she tells that story
my sister shakes her head in disbelief
“i love it here,” she states so clearly, holding
her hands out to the smoggy skies and the clogged
up freeways. “why would i ever be crying?”
my cousin who lived in the apartment across from us
would run in every morning when she woke up and
with her stale breath and entangled hair leap into
each of our arms. and when we moved to the
townhouse a few streets down she tugged on her
mother’s kaftan and begged for them to move as well.
when i started school boys would rip the bindi off of
my forehead and tell me that my hands smelled like
curry and girls would pull on my hair until i cried and
gasp when i leaned in to try and kiss them
kids from the older schools offered me half empty
glass bottles and small plastic packages and would laugh
at the way my eyes would grow wide when they
leaned in too close
but every night i still stayed up waiting to hear
another ring of the ambulance and praying that
someone would get to live until tomorrow
