Take 3: by @inchbyinch68

Q: You know I’m right. The risk of contamination is much less if you store the peanut butter in the fridge after it’s been opened.
C: That is ridiculous. Peanut butter doesn’t spread when it is cold.
Q: You should be getting all natural, anyway, not that processed crap. The natural is much better for Frannie.
C: Again with the speadability issue.
Q: And have you read the latest recommendations about introducing peanuts to the diets of young children? The timing is critical if you want to minimize the risk of life-threatening allergies.
C: Wait a minute. Why have you been reading about factors that influence food allergies in young children?
Q: Have you considered almond butter or sunbutter? I mean, this is Brooklyn for fuck’s sake.
C: This whole argument is ludicrous. Half the readers are international and don’t even eat peanut butter, much less have an opinion on the finer details of peanut butter brands or storage.
Q: I know! You’ve got British tea, we should be raising Frannie to be a citizen of the world.
C: We?
Q: You and I have lived all over Europe and the Middle East. We should introduce Fran to more international foods, like marmite, vegemite and Nutella.
C: Well, Nutella, of course, but marmite and vegemite are disgusting.
Q: My point exactly. You don’t even eat Indian food. We have to introduce these things to Frannie before she is old enough to know better, so that she’ll appreciate global cuisine.
C: Hmm. I bet you’ve never eaten peanut butter from the fridge in your life. You are just overly worried about Frannie.
Q: Hey, I happen to know from experience that the world can be a dangerous place. I don’t want her to suffer. Not from rotovirus. Not from allergies. Not from fucking terrorists with their insensitively located gas chambers.
C: It’s actually really sexy.
Q: What?! Exessive worrying, or the hobo look?
C: Your concern for Frannie. I hadn’t realized how much you think about her.
Q: Carrie, she’s your kid. I think about her all the time.
C: I mean it. I feel so alone sometimes, trying to make every right decision for her, even which brand of fucking peanut butter to buy.
Q: Hey…I’m really in awe of how you’ve become such a caring mother.
C: Yeah?
Q: Yeah. I should tell you more often instead of criticizing your peanut butter.
C: I should tell you how impressed I am with your determination to keep trying again and again. It’s fucking amazing.
Q: Yeah?
C: Yeah. It’s a shame we suck at telling each other these things.
Q: Maybe we just need to figure out some less verbal ways of communicating our feelings. C’mere.
Q: God, Carrie, I wish I could lift you into my arms and carry you up the stairs.
C: You know, you carried me in you arms after knocking me out back in Berlin. So, we’ve done that. This is better.

  • Me, a year ago: why are people so obsessed with finding spoilers? I prefer not knowing anything
  • Me, now: *stalks every actor, actress, writer and director on Twitter, analyze every pixel of the stills, rewatches the promo 80 times and frequents the spoiler tag*

In this land,
far from home
many times
I’ve walked these roads 

Today, however,
I feel lost
in the thought
of the lanes 
I once strolled

This body
was agile
these feet
much younger
with thoughts like lightning
and a heartbeat of thunder

Now all that’s left
is this frame that’s weak
is this soul that’s old
is this mind
like a book with pages
starting to fold

an ache in my chest
still remains unaltered
since I parted with my home
while my heart faltered

And as in a haste,
I made my move
This heart of mine
strongly disapproved

So while I traveled
all the way,
this far
A piece of me
I lost
as I couldn’t
bring my heart

Painfully from this vessel
it got torn apart

—  Of Homes and Homelands, Shikha Singh
Refugees carry their mother tongue like a tool in their tool box,
I carry mine like a gun that I do not know how to shoot.
My grandfather speaks the language of the country that he has immigrated to with a deep accent and holes that remind him everyday of the flight he had to make.
He twists the words and speaks softly incase he makes mistakes.
He sighs deeply when he hears me throw in words of a foreign language into sentences of my mother tongue.
If all we have left is our language,
should we let them occupy that too?
But I still speak my homelanguage with a slight tone of a foreign country,
with words and grammar that don’t make sense.
But I still attend all my mother tongue classes.
For my grandparents, for the people that fought so that I could have a language to speak and to call my own.
For my father and mother who were war children.
Who went through puberty having to worry about if their parents were going to be alive tomorrow instead of worrying if their crush likes them back.
For my family who still have hints of PTSD.
For my grandpa who has nightmares every night.
For my mother who cannot go to basements without getting flashbacks of having to hide in them from the war crimes comitted against her.
I attend my homelanguage classes, and I fight my own tongue because it is one of the only things that binds me to my ancestors.
They cannot occupy or kill something that is alive forever.
Books and songs and language and language and language.
—  //My grandpa, my mother tongue and I.