Dearest Blue,

by Huda Obaid

Dearest Blue,

It is 3:52 am, cloudy skies outside, I am sitting on a large, regal-looking wooden dining table, books scattered everywhere. The Kooks are playing from my laptop— visualize it. Bedhead, tired eyes, nail paint that’s left in patches Huda. I bought this card 2 days ago from this huge huge huge bookstore opposite my bus stop. I go there to clear my head, remember what I love, what excites me. I saw this card, among others, and I thought of you instantly. So here I am, trying to avoid spaces, me trying to end my resistance, mental resistance to writing. I have to shower, complete two online quizzes, nap, and take the first bus to campus. Midterms + finals are fast approaching and I have no time to be anything but robotic. My moods are so crazy these days— like the moon. Rapid changes in the tides in my head: euphoria to anguish, laughter to tears, energy to bedridden. I keep thinking: lunatic lunatic lunatic. Do you think there’s something wrong with me? Right now I am so energetic, I want to fly into outer space and explode into an infinite collection of unique stardust particles. Golden Huda flakes. Provoke the north wind, examine snowflakes, run as fast as my short legs can hold, to an away place. No paragraphs here— yesterday, I went with my brother to a friend’s house to collect some economics notes. We were opposite square one and this crazy wind blew. It did not stop. Imagine walking through an Arctic landscape, the strength of the winds there. THAT. It blew for a solid 2 minutes, unrelentless, cold frozen, fierce: right against us. We couldn’t walk. We stood there screaming “Fuck!” It was surreal. I spent the rest of the day hugging my hot water bottle. I’m still left with some chills. Like hickeys you can feel. It’s so nice here, everyone is asleep. I keep missing the day I snuck out with you. Your house was like every safe place I imagined as a kid. Your Nani was so full of stories and memories, I so want to speak to her and listen to her all day. I miss the view from your room and the way your dog followed me. The stillness of the pond and all the flowers. Was it a dream? We lay on your bed and didn’t even speak. It must be a dream. I crave Peshawari ice cream, I loved the way the cream melted on my tongue as we listened to Tajdar-e-Haram. We were late to the football match. I miss reading your letters in economics— Xenub giving me curious glances. Oh nostalgia. I miss you Blue. Canada is so cool. I love it. Everything is so simple and beautiful. Just the bus rides seem ethereal. Everyone is in a world of their own yet here. I met this old lady once, she dangerously crossed the road from the middle, a shortcut to the bus stop. Her legs hurt, she said. She was pushing a trolley full of fruits and they all tumbled out. Nice, kind, urban Canadian kids ignored her. I stopped and helped her. It hurt me so much— to grow old with no one to help. That’s what she said to me, “Thank you! No one helps me.” There’s another old Chinese lady who I usually see— she’s so frail but looks are deceiving. She’s strong af and she carries a trolley full of insane stuff, just scraps and old, worn objects. She seems so fascinating, I’m going to follow her one day. I sat on the tram/streetcar that runs in Toronto after 2-3 years and almost cried. It was like being this tiny speck, free to explore the entire world. I was in the New York of Canada and I felt so free, as if my clipped wings were fluttering in the magical moment. I wish you were here. I want to wear octagon glasses, grow forget-me-nots and sip coffee in small cafes. New York style. Listen to the Kooks and Led Zeppelin and wish I had the pleasure of seeing Zarlasht— the space vampire in action. Where are you now, Blue? Sitting by the sea or under the stars? I loved that poem of yours. How is Fati, the pari? I miss her golden-green eyes, the hearts she drew on my letters. I am so torn—a bridge of bones between Karachi and Toronto. Not sure where I belong, I ache for both. I cannot survive without either. I want to smoke under the Toronto skyline but sit on the edge of the Arabian sea, begging to be turned into a mermaid. I’m sorry for talking about myself, I feel like I ruined the entire card. I feel so blank, so transparent. Like I can’t hold concrete ideas inside me. I wanted to give you Red. I think I’m still searching for more Red to make me. I’m definitely a new Huda. An improved update, by that I mean minor bug fixes. I’m still the moonstruck, daydreaming Hudso, who hates how the meaning of her name doesn’t help her. I hope you are alright, easing into a no-regrets phase and not caring about the consequences of your investments. YOLO. Let’s be honest and free, unconstrained by the shackles of fear, social norms , and uncertainty. I’m here if you need me, even if it’s a call at 5 am or a million text messages or a coffee and Balzac’s/Timmie’s or ice cream at Boat Basin. Where ever we are. Take very good care of your Monet Blue. I want to tell you so much more, I wish cards were bigger. Hope you can decipher my writing. Thank you for always bringing me back to the important place. J’adore tu. 

-Huda

Huda is an accounting major at the University of Toronto. She likes to write in spontaneous bursts about anything at all.