If I were a poet instead, I would find the right words,
The words that could bring you back to life as you were:
The small explosion of energy that was you
Coming into a room,

The hair you tried to tame, but only half-heartedly.
(We shared that, you and I).
The smile that stayed behind long after you had gone,
(It must stay in our hearts now that you won't be coming back).

If I were a poet, I would find the right words
To describe you when you were serious,
The hesitant way you spoke as you thought aloud,
The care with which you chose your words,
Because you thought in terms of possibilities and probabilities,
Not in terms of certainties.
But when you were certain, you could move mountains.

I don't know quite when you grew up,
When you stopped being Shireen's little sister,
The little sister I never had,
And became this fearless young woman
Who fought for those that the rest of us forgot
Or preferred to forget
Or simply did not have time to remember,
Those strangers who became your friends.

When did you stop being the little sister,
And become the grown up sister I never had?,
Where did you find the wisdom that the rest of us yearn to find?
How did you find time to move all those mountains,
And yet never lose the gift for the small, precious moments,
The gift of keeping your feet on the ground?

In all that flurry of activity that was your daily life,
Did we remember to tell you how much we loved you,
And what a precious gift you were to us, little sister,
Who grew up to become a beacon of hope
That lit up and warmed the rest of the world?

Naila Kabeer teaches at the University of Sussex.