Pruned branches [crabfat magazine]
Nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2016
The year I turned eight, my cousin Yaqub was fifteen. One day that summer, I stood in the door to the tiny kitchen in their home in Lahore, watching his sister, Zainab, drop raw meatballs into a sputtering curry sauce. Aluminum woks teetered as usual under the stove and the counter was a clutter of knives and ladles, clean and dirty. Their wooden eight-section spice box sat by the door, enticing me with the fading turquoise and vermillion whorls on its lid. As I reached for its worn knob, a bony hand gripped my wrist. My body tensed. I dropped the lid....