It’s not the boy who arrests me, it’s the man I recognize above the boy, a man on a balcony who’s dropping a wet skirt to dry over the steel rail of it, and a blouse, and a towel, and other laundry, and then blue sheets.
It was Ramadan. In the time of Trump. So you couldn’t just go to some restaurants, you’d have to wait until dark. I don’t fast, but to eat in front of other Arab Americans who do would be an asshole move, undignified. Dignity is my organized religion.
Only your great grandmother came straight from the kitchen to the table, still stinking of brine and iron. Resplendent in her Shabbos skirt, matte ocher blood becomes evening gloves.
You refuse to go to your doctor for months. You and your partner treat this like most projects, with enthusiasm that can only be dampened by people in authority. Because it’s about the body, you embrace disassociation– treating your guts like a meteor suspended in the rafters of your garage…
“I went to my first wedding at twenty-one. A former best friend was getting married to her high school sweetheart. I was dreading it…”