tells me he has a surprise for me.

Two big brushes.

two cans of paint,

the grayest blue,

to match the ocean waves,

he says,

and a rusty gold orange,

to match the sand.

Baba knows

I miss the beach in Karachi,

and am tired of the walls

white white white,

so we begin,

and now whenever I enter my room,

I hear the waves,

and smell the sand.

Baba hangs up hooks

with a hammer

and a bearded smile.

For your clothes

and medals

one day!

Leftover Paint

Our “just right” house

no longer has creepy black shutters,

but shutters that match the ocean.

Art Class

When I doodle,

my mind forgets

all that is happening

around me,

the bad

and the good

and the in-between.

My doodles

become sketches.

And when I write

in my journal,

the words and pictures

play and flirt

with each other.

I linger

over the paper

the way my mother

lingers over the mirror.

My Art Teacher

Ms. White

gives us a project

to draw a self-portrait.

I am forced to look

in the mirror

and draw, draw, draw.

Shadows of the eye,

bushiness of the brow,

hollows of the bone.

B+ is the grade I get.

Our next project:

Make a collage of a special place

that has meaning to you.

So I glue, cut, draw

crushed pink tile

hungry green plants

bold blue pool

by Nana and Nana Abu’s garden

and get an A.

I wonder

what was wrong

with the picture

of me?

For the final project

draw yourself

for a self-portrait

but with something unexpected.

The class grumbles.

She pushes up her glasses

holds up a finger.

Draw what feels good.

Surprise me . . .

The Words of Ms. White

I won’t remember

your name

long after you’re gone,

but if you have a piece

of art that’s memorable,

I will always remember your work.

Always.

I want to be remembered.

Swim Meets

Owais and I

are used to Ammi

not coming anymore

but last time

Baba came,

and Ammi too.

Ammi’s face was tight

Baba’s face was loose

but when Owais won,

her face became

loose and lovely

and I wished that

I was a winner too.

Swim Meet

If I watch the ways of winners,

watch them hard enough,

maybe I will learn.

Once Owais swims lazily

in second place.

Way behind.

I am growing bored watching.

But suddenly near the end,

his pace

picks up . . .

I gasp as

his arms

slice the water

feet a blur

and suddenly

he is in first place.

I am hooked.

How did you do that?

My features incredulous

It was easy.

He shakes off the water

with a smile.

Now that he is back in the water,

his dimpled smiles come easy.

Too easy.

It’s not fair.

Does he know how badly

I want to win?

Extra Sleep

Is like scraps of frosting

to me.

Irresistible.

But now on weekends

at the white thread of dawn,