أنا و المزهرية واحد / spiritual decay

picturesque sky in a faraway town

there is a house by the sea, and there’s the sea. there’s not much else. there’s children and there’s food and there’s not much else. i imagined romance in a small town but there’s not much. there’s ipads and azerbeijan cooking videos on panasonic televisions in a majlis. the men sit with the women, sipping on coffee and tea and discuss the fish of the season.

جش و جنعد بس صغار و كله عظام ما ينفع

the boys take turns pinching and coughing while playing in the courtyard sand. the two-year-old roughens his voice and bites the one-year-old until he lets out a cry loud enough for the neighbors to use as an excuse to drop by. the adults laughs at the mini games as they play with their hands and pass the fewala around. someone got a divorce today and another killed themselves or it was an accident; they’re not sure yet. the glass door in the extension of the house is complete and the one-year-old learned a new word. they’re saying it’s going to rain, though it never does. there’s much to celebrate.

استويت اشرب وايد قهوة بس زين هههه بعد ما يرقدون تبين تروقين شوي

someone’s na’al is gone after prayer. someone else keeps checking their phone for nothing. the sun drops heavy and orange behind the house, coating the walls in something bright and hollow like memory. in the worn courtyard, there’s the same stories, told again with slight variation. the mother’s hand gestures grow larger and the father interrupts less while the kids chase shadows till they disappear, until a cup falls; it doesn’t break but they say it’s the jinni. the kaka juice drips from my son’s hands and he watches as ants gather around him. “الحمدلله” like a habit coats the yard as the sound of the sea fills the rest.

تخيلي وحدة سارت هذا الإسطبل و وحدة هناك عقصت شعرها الطويل و انسحرت

there’s a suffocating calm that feels like waiting. i pray at every prayer on time and wait for the next to come. i eat dough in between until i can’t feel my stomach. i feed my baby regular full fat milk in a bottle, and i wait for my husband to come back home from the sea or job at the borders or the mainland. i’m from the mainland, but now it feels like faraway dream. sometimes i forget the color of my mother’s kitchen tiles. sometimes i forget if she’s still alive, though i spoke to her this week. i laugh lots and sit with the women who pass through and by. they bring their children to entertain mine and gossip to refill our cups.

سارت مصر و ما ردت مادري يمكن طاحت فالنهر ولا ريلها جتلها هههههه

at night, the sea gets closer. we hear it slap against the stone like it wants to be let in. the wind moves through the corridor, bending the curtain edges like hands searching, grabbing at our heads and feet. the lock on the door rusts in the salty air. the television hums in another room, forgotten and confused. they say the sea eats good men, but it’s the only place to be. we wake in the night twice, restless.

فيه هوى قوي اليوم يمكن المطر صدق ياي

i think of the city lights from the mainland, how they must look now, brighter than the ones here, more awake. i try to remember the sound of traffic, of stores closing, of the call to prayer echoing between towers instead of open air. every night, i dream the sea eats the house whole, and i wake to find the walls damp and the sand inside the sink. the baby’s blanket smells of salt. i wash it again, again.

the next morning, there’s talk of fish again, and coffee, and someone’s cousin who found a job in the mainland police. a truck passes, drops off gas, and keeps going. there’s a swarm of birds that follow.

والله البحر متعب بس ما نقدر نعيش من دونه

the day folds back into itself. i don’t know what day of the week it is, but the date moves forwards and backwards. i watch the sun move across the wall until it disappears into the same pink-orange hollow. the courtyard hums inwards, swelling and collapsing. i hear a man’s voice leak between the spaces. i think it’s the sea, or god, or maybe both.