My father: Absent but always present

Published: June 29, 2012

My father, who is never here, gifted me his hands- but not what was in them.

My father, who is hardly ever here,
Lines his walls with books
As though to prevent them from falling in.

The mismatched clothes he likes to wear,
They smell like thoughts
Of pine trees and topological functions.

My father, whenever he is here,
Lends me his helpless traits.
And I shelve them obediently, my walls mere imitations.

My father, when he goes anywhere,
Carries his roots with him
In the tilt of his head, in the clearing of his throat.

My father, who is never here,
Gifted me his hands –
But not what was in them.

Maham Khan

Maham Khan

Is an A levels from Roots College International, Islamabad and intends to start University in September. She enjoys reading, writing and listening to folk music to fill the time in between.

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