Mariya
by Anitha Ahmed
There is a picture of us in the backyard, winter of 1997, dangling
from the swing-set. Mariya has tied the ends of her dress at her waist; her
winter scarf has fallen into the gravel behind the set. In the picture, she
hangs from the metal bar, her face crinkled, legs bent, ponytail fraying in
the breeze. I stand on the swing with my knees pushed together, clinging
to the chain in a half-smile. I can’t remember what kind of sweet halwa
my mother had made for us in the morning; I can’t remember standing in
place as the picture was taken. What I do remember is Mariya climbing
onto the bar and teetering with her arms out, shaking with laughter. Suddenly, her feet slip on the metal; this time, she doesn’t fall.
Mariya was the daughter of my mother’s elder sister. She came to
live with us the summer I turned nine, and she ten. Mariya’s father had
died before she could speak, I was told, and Mariya’s mother was now
sick.
“You played together as babies in Pakistan,” my mother told me
beforehand. “You crawled right into her lap, you cried for her when we
left. She is your sister already!”
Nevertheless, for the first few days, I regarded Mariya with caution, she who within five minutes of arriving had already stolen my
mother’s pinching fingers, her shrill endearments. Mariya and I were to
share a room. My mother told me to allow her stuffed animals onto my
bed, to offer her my pajamas and American clothes for school (as though
she didn’t already have her own), which hung too large from her shoulders and slipped from her waist, despite her age.
“You must be kind to her,” my mother had told me. I remember
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