Foreign Homeland

Kristina Seid-Mosaffa
(Shoelaces Contest Winner)

There is a roll of paper towels on the kitchen counter. I tear one off, not quite managing a neat removal; the fraying edges hang like weak teeth, bared with no intention of biting. The coarse material is rough against the soft pudgy skin under my eyes.

If you were here, you’d yell at me for being so lax and bring me Kleenex. The lotion kind that I like to smooth between my fingers and blow puffs of air into, to see how high I can get it to fly. You could be flying right now. Do they have you handcuffed to your seat arm, dressed in black-and-white striped convict clothing? Are you with your family, or do they keep you all apart so that you can’t see the shame in your father’s eyes?

A plane might be reaching too high. Maybe they have you on a ship with the rest of the rejects, safely contained. I can’t remember—do you get seasick?

What are you thinking of right now? About palm trees and dark skin and the hundreds of dialects that you can’t speak, that you haven’t spoken since you were seven? Are you scared?

I’m scared for you, but I’m more afraid for myself. I keep checking my phone for messages I know I won’t get, going over a number that won’t reach anyone. I can no longer call your apartment and hear your mother, her thick, sweet accent asking me if I’ve eaten yet today.

I want to break into your apartment now, because I know everything is normal there. Your IKEA magazine living room is spotless, the white faux bear skin rug as bright as snow even after six months of wear. The table is set with bamboo mats scrubbed clean, all the chairs placed evenly. If I open your fridge, I’ll find a monstrous bottle of ketchup nestled between purple yam paste and leftover rice.

You eat ketchup on everything, slathering it over pizza crusts until it coats your fingers.

Is it sick that they only took you yesterday but I can’t remember your face? All I can remember is your shoes, white, white like the awful rug in your empty living room, the laces tied into a perfect bow. Mine are dirty, the plastic wrapping on the ends cracking and exposing fraying threads. I have them looped three times into this knotty, crooked bow that limps to the side like a dying flower.

You never deserved this. You were made for this country, but maybe you tried too hard. Maybe you were too good, your shoes too white, your laces too neat. There’s only room for people like me, scuffed and silent.

The paper towel is crushed in my hand; I smooth it out against the counter, raise it into my palm, blow. It flies straight to the ground, sliding across the linoleum, crumpled but unyielding.