The Place Where I’ll Be Buried
It was a joke when I turned to my sister and asked, “I dunno, do you wanna share a spinsters’ grave with me?”
It was a joke when I turned to my sister and asked, “I dunno, do you wanna share a spinsters’ grave with me?”
For those of us who have never been on the blunt end of sexism (or racism, or ableism, etc.), things can look funny or tragic or intriguingly disgusting when they are actually evil.
I run down the dune to be closer to the water and it feels like I’m flying. I don’t think about climbing back up.
Then MOses set OUT with JOSHua his AIDE. And MOses went UP the MOUNtain of GOD.
Here’s to people and their things. Here’s to not liking sports and to nose piercings, to back tattoos and bro tanks, to longboards, to reading the newspaper each morning with a cup of coffee.
Or maybe, there’s liberation to being in limbo—for a brief time, I’m nowhere. I’m placeless. I’m just part of the mass of humanity that’s moving from one space to another and back again.
But the sun comes out and doughnuts exist and there’s a one-eyed cat who likes to roam the school grounds and often visits my window. This happens, too.
The dancers separate into groups of eight and begin the dance. There’s nothing quite like the sound of hundreds of wooden shoes clomping along the asphalt in rhythm. Or the semblance of rhythm.
There’s a large chance that right now I’m making something out of that goal and that moment that wasn’t there. It’s just a game, you’ll say, and you’re right.
It started out as a family errand: Ahmed Haithem Ahmed was driving his mother, Mohassin, to pick up his father from the hospital where he worked.