an itinerant observer

“ Should we resume the monoclonal antibodies that help her heal or preserve the fragile calm we’ve found in their absence?” The question looms, heavy and unrelenting. My mother, the matriarch, now stands at a delicate crossroads. These past two months without medication infusions have brought a surprising lightness to her days. She moves with more ease, takes joy in simple tasks—cooking, cleaning, even making those sugary desserts again. One evening, as she kneads dough for chapatis , she pauses and looks me in the eye. “Do you think I can get through this without more treatments?” She asks. I don’t know how to answer—but in that moment, her strength reminds me that this is her battle, and I am only there to support her. It’s a reprieve that feels both precious and precarious, shadowed by the uncertainty of what lies ahead. Another day, the warm aroma of cardamom wafts through the kitchen as she prepares our favorite halwa , her hands moving with a rhythm that feels both f...

Seven years. That’s how long it’s been since he left - though it’s a complicated kind of absence, more presence-in-absence than true departure. My father, Abu, was not the type to explicitly guide or advise. He was not a mentor, and certainly not a friend in the typical sense. We did not have those deep, heart-to-heart conversations. Instead, he was this quiet, steady presence in my life, sometimes maddeningly so. A provider? Yes. But as a father, in the conventional sense - someone I looked up to, leaned on, shared my struggles with? Not really. And yet, in some strange way, he was always there, quietly shaping my life choices without interference, accepting whatever I was doing, however unremarkable. I have often wondered if he would approve of the decisions I have made, like the time I signed his code status as Do Not Resuscitate . I remember standing by his side, grappling with that decision, feeling both alone and strangely anchored by the quiet figure he had always been. An...