PROSE: SANDY IBRAHIM

HE SAID SHE SAID

He said, when I grow up, I’m going to be able to choose my kid's eye colour.
She said, why’s that?
He said, science, mom - that’s why.
She said, when you grow up, you’ll be looking for consistent water supply.
He said, why do you always have to do that?
She said, do what?
He said, make every conversation about climate change?
She said, I don’t mean to; I just want to be real with you.
He said, you never say anything positive. Ever.
She said, I’m sorry – that’s not my intention.
He said, my friends think you’re a downer.
She said, would you rather I pretend it’s not happening?
He said, I’d rather you let be happy sometimes.
She said, I want to prepare you.
He said, to be miserable.
She said, fine. What eye colour would you choose?
He said, screw you.
She said nothing
He said, I’m sorry. You just suck all the air out of the room sometimes.
She said, is that an apology?
He said, I’m pretty angry.
She said, you should be, but it’s misdirected.
He said, I’m going to be happy regardless of what’s coming.
She said, good, I want that for you.
He said, you make it hard.
She said, I’m trying to do the right thing but I don’t know what that is.
He said, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
She said, ok.
He pulled out his phone and said, purple.
She said, purple would be cool.

Sandy Ibrahim is a writer and mother from Victoria, BC (lək̓ʷəŋən territory) who fumbles around climate change conversations with her children.