Bowl of Spinach

every day I wake up

on that same, soft mattress

under a warm blanket

made of the finest wool,

in that same bedroom

with the white ceramic walls

painted a watermelon pink,

wondering why my

six-year-old self

had always loved

such a revolting color.

and that same morning

consisted of coffee brewing

and movie watching

and mindlessly pressing

buttons on a broken remote,

while mother calls the family

for dinner, and I'm still sitting there,

grimacing as the familiar aroma

of spinach permeates the house.

and just as I finish another episode of friends

does the first drop of sweat

fall down my mother's pale cheeks,

and soaks her already grimy clothes.

but the bowl of spinach

and that platter of rice

continue to sit on the counter,

untouched and unopened,

as the rest of my family

keeps themselves locked in their rooms,

unaware and uncaring,

of that freshly made batch of spinach

just waiting to be devoured

just by them.

BUT SOMEWHERE OUT THERE

as the spinach on our kitchen counter

grows colder every passing moment,

one child on the other side of the world,

is on the ground,

starving,

dying,

begging for a bite of anything

that we habitually like to waste,

yet we fail to acknowledge this.

SOMEWHERE OUT THERE

a mother is lying on her bed,

staring up at the broken tiles of the ceiling

as her youngest child

risks his own life

just to get her a glass of water

yet we fail to acknowledge this

SOMEWHERE OUT THERE

there is a human

an animal

or another being

who needs that darn bowl of spinach

so much more than I do,

yet I fail to acknowledge this.

and one day,

maybe tomorrow,

or many years from now,

I will wake up

on that same, soft mattress

under a warm blanket

made of the finest wool,

in that same bedroom

with the white ceramic walls

painted a watermelon pink,

and think about nothing

but that one, godforsaken bowl of spinach.

and when I do,

those watermelon pink walls

might be the last thing

I might ever see.

and that soft, warm blanket

made of the finest wool

might be the last thing I might ever touch.

and the familiar aroma

of my mother's spinach

might be the last thing

I might ever smell.

before I close my eyes

for the very last time,

wishing that I could

replay those moments

all over again.

-Maryam @redvelvet8975