Student Spectrums

Tahir Altalib has a keen eye on the local and national political scene. Through his words, he seeks to bring novel perspectives on timely issues to the table.

“The rains might start again,” said the gravedigger, a gnarly faced man whose middle finger was missing. His worn out t-shirt peeked through his dirt stained puffer. His jeans were ripped, not out of style, but due to the wear and tear. The only thing that didn’t fit with him was his bright blue bucket hat. “He must’ve stolen it,” thought Lila. “We should finish this up in the next twenty minutes before it gets too muddy out here,” the man continued. He whistled over to a young, malnourished looking boy, who trotted on over, took a shovel, and started burying the body.

Lila looked across the graveyard wondering how many graves the two men who stood before her had buried. She thanked the initial man who seemed to have been the boss, and began to walk away. The rain started again and she still had a long way to get to her car. She started to run, but slipped on the mud. Feeling absolutely hopeless, she yelled in despair, and she looked around with no idea what to do. She saw the young boy running towards her and he helped her up. He took her back to a building and gave her some water and what she understood to be his lunch. She thanked him and started home once the rain had ended. 

In the months that followed, Lila had a set routine. She woke up, ate her breakfast, went to work at the pharmacy, and came back. In the evening, she would sit at the foot of her mother’s bed, and stare at the chest that sat across her. Over time, she made tiny little friends on that chest, but she didn’t have enough happiness in her heart to name them. Time went on until it had been a year since the burial, and one day, when Lila got home and was sorting through her mail, she saw the ballot for the presidential election coming up. Immediately her mother’s words echoed: “No matter how small your voice is, it makes a difference. Doesn’t matter how much money you have and it doesn’t matter how smart you are. Your voice makes a difference.” It hit Lila all of a sudden. Her mom had been buried for over a year. The world had moved on. The candidates, speeches, debates, the pharmacy. Everyone had moved on to the other stages in their life. Except Lila. A year ago she was stuck in a state of grief. A year later she’s still grieving. She stomped over to the chest in her mother’s room, peeled open the lid, ignoring her tiny friends who scrambled around on the webs, and she stared down at the chest.

Inside the chest were envelopes and albums and books. On the cover of each object was a picture of Lila and her mom. Each a different picture, she sat down, tears fogging up her vision. Lila, now unable to hold back her sobs, started bawling and yelling. It was the first time in years she had ever cried. She flipped through the albums and pictures reminiscing all the moments captured. She saw pictures of her initial birthdays, her kindergarten graduation, her high school graduation, and even her college graduation. She saw a picture of them at the park, at the swimming pool, on her Uncle Toby’s backyard swing when she was little. She loved her mom, and she can never let go of her. 

The sobs shook her body, letting loose emotions she had buried as deep as her mother. For hours, she stayed there, flipping through the pictures and reading the notes her mother had written on the backs of some. Her mother’s handwriting, loopy and elegant, brought her back to memories of mornings at the kitchen table, where her mom would write grocery lists and letters while Lila sipped orange juice. One note on the back of a photograph caught her eye: “My Lila, never forget, you carry me in your heart. You are stronger than you think.”

The words hit her like a wave. For so long, she had equated letting go with losing her mother forever. But sitting here, surrounded by the evidence of their life together, she realized her mother was never truly gone. She was in the pictures, in the words, in the memories etched into Lila’s soul. Letting go didn’t mean forgetting. It meant carrying her mother forward in a way that honored her instead of anchoring Lila in the past. When she finally stood up, her legs were stiff and her face streaked with tears, but her chest felt lighter. She looked back at the ballot on the kitchen table, her mother’s words echoing once more: “Your voice makes a difference.”

The next morning, Lila filled out the ballot and walked it to the drop box. It wasn’t just about voting—it was about stepping back into the world, carrying her mother’s love and lessons with her. On the way back, she passed a florist and bought a small bouquet of daisies, her mother’s favorite flower.

At the graveyard, she searched for the young boy who had buried her mother a year ago. After searching the site, the food in her hands started to get heavy. She went over to what seemed to be the main office and asked the man sitting at the only desk in the room, where the boy was. The man had informed her that the boy was “no longer with us”. Terrified as to what exactly “no longer with us” meant, Lila decided not to ask questions and thanked the man for the information.

On site, at the graveyard,  the rains had just started again, a soft drizzle that misted the air. Lila sat by her mother’s grave and placed the daisies gently on the damp earth. “I love you, Mom,” she whispered, her voice steady. “And I’ll carry you with me, always.” She opened up the container with food in it and began eating thinking of what she must’ve missed out on in the last year.

The rain fell heavier as Lila stood and walked away, but she didn’t hurry. For the first time in over a year, she felt alive, ready to embrace the life her mother had always wanted for her. One step, one choice, and one memory at a time.