ronia ibrahim
roots
we dream about the chinese family at the farmers’ markets
who drive from levin at 4am every saturday
a truck full of spring onion bouquets
we could’ve been them
but our garden is a bamboo-stick
catastrophe
where we attempt to grow a beanstalk for the umpteenth time
well there’s only so much you can be in a backyard
roots //
i have lessons
over a sink of dead kumara leaves
my mother teaches me how to wash
chop
nourish
my mother tells me
if i ever swallow a watermelon seed
it might grow in my stomach
she’s only joking
but i still learn how to spit compulsively
roots //
don’t forget them,
like we sang at school assembly.
we still don’t know where to start but
for now six60 is our anthem
300 tiny symphonies all promise
don’t forget your family
roots //
in year 1 we grew beans from a paper towel in a jar
i watched them unfurl from nothing but a damp white glow
the start of a minor dynasty
in year 6 the school planted a tree for my teacher who didn’t tell anyone
she had breast cancer
until she died
there’s a plaque right next to it
where the tree is growing
as if she’s buried there
roots //
like crying between my mother’s knees
as she is tying my hair
into strong ropes
stretched from a small skull
if you tied my 6-year-old plaits to the centre of the pacific ocean
i think i could still find my way back
i remember where
i come from
a sink of swaddled green-black
roots //
my dynasty is germinating
i keep it in a little jar
labelled
the ones who made me
roots //
i am weeding with my father,
pants sinking into the mud
gumboots three sizes too big
pulling
unravelling
we dream about starting again
on a sunday afternoon
where the back pain started
trying again with this damn beanstalk
maybe this summer will be different
Ronia Ibrahim is a very sentimental 20-year-old. She has written things for Salient, Newsroom, The Spinoff, Stasis, Food Court, Turbine|Kapohau and Salty. In her spare time she likes to trawl op shops, dabble in veganism and do the laundry.