February 2021 – Sarah Bahiraei

one day we’ll tell her about the way light
through the bedroom window
danced
across
her cheek

how it looked
a little
like Hope

but first

how the four concrete walls of this house felt like a cell
a place we didn’t want to be
in a country we didn’t want to live

how we unpacked our suitcases
reluctantly
and made room
for an ever-present, never-leaving, uninvited guest
named Waiting

how it was only a house
a place we slept and ate and buried our dreams

how we memorized the creaks in the floors and cracks in the ceilings

how we dug our nails
deep
into
leaving

how we bled
desperately ignoring
Waiting

and then

we will tell her how we brought fresh life
through the doors of that house
not at all like we imagined

how a baby caused us to relax our grip
and to make room for Hope

caused us to lean forward
with every fiber of our being

caused us to speculate
who she’ll be
where we’ll be
now, a mystery

how we brushed off dormant dreams
and replaced them with flowers
dug deep into the dirt

with picture frames
and books
and tiny toys
all the while still looking ahead

how we stepped over the creaks
as she napped
took notice of the sunrise on one side and the sunset on the other
of the kitchen
balcony
and mountains

welcomed it
accepted it

how we saw the speckled light
bouncing off the mirror
creating a rainbow swirling across the cheek
of our chubby
ray
of
Hope

how light caused us to breathe

to Surrender

to make a home here
Hope here
while we
wait
here

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series “280 Words”.

There’s a saying that most of marriage is shouting, ‘What?’ to each other from other rooms. If I weren’t reading this text message at such a serious moment in my marriage, I would have laughed at the tired relationship stereotype coming true, like leaving the toilet seat up or the inability to agree on a restaurant.

I repeat the immigration attorney’s text to my husband as I stand outside the bathroom of our Turkish apartment, my voice competing with the gushing shower head’s echo bouncing off the tiles. I had taken my first positive pregnancy test a few days earlier, and my hand inadvertently touches my stomach while I struggle to push down the anxiety creeping over my chest and up my neck.

“He wrote,”—I take a deep breath to steady my voice—“‘You will most likely NEVER be able to immigrate to the United States.’” I stare at the glowing screen and the five capitalized letters. Each word from the attorney’s message punctuates the darkness of the hallway. The finality of the sentence chills the air despite the steam coming from the shower.

For the entirety of our relationship, my husband’s immigration process has attached itself like an extra appendage. It’s been an unwanted shadow following us everywhere we go. Marrying someone from a country banned from entering the U.S. meant finding ourselves thrown amid bureaucratic limbo. It meant being at the mercy of politicians who see others like chess pieces used for their advantage.

Resting my forehead against the bathroom door frame, I wonder why we can never feel joy with no other competing emotion. I think of the new life I’m carrying and of the celebratory calls made to my parents on the other side of the Atlantic. Grief always seems to thread itself over and under life’s happy moments.

With my eyes closed, I brace myself for a response from the shower. When there is none, I’m half-convinced he still hasn’t heard me but I know he has. The little shred of hope deflates from within us both and circles down the drain…continue reading on Coffee + Crumbs

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I am so honored to have this essay chosen as the first place winner in Coffee + Crumbs Love After Babies contest.

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

Month: February 2021

The House Surrender Built

Playing with Fire