The dust clouds the road in a hazy veil.
Not dust stirred up by the ricochet of guns,
but from children playing soccer all around.
The hum of rickshaws zooming by, my aunt calling one down for us.
She settles beside him as we pile up in the back,
soft giggles and smiles as he takes off, making us hold on to one another tightly.
Each house we pass by is full of riches; heaps of gold and family traditions.
A sharp stinging reaches everyone,
not from veils tightly wrapped around women
and poison-laced words shot out from men’s mouths.
But from the blazing sun prickling at people’s skin,
wrapping tightly around everyone with warmth provided by ancestors.
We reminisce of the cool breeze of the Nile River.
Chilly air providing a source of comfort,
like the way Arabic wrapped around our souls,
casting a soft glow on everyone.
Stories shared around a plate of dates, scents of bakhour lingering,
walks to the supermarket around the corner, stray cats easily befriended.
Simple enjoyments made up life. Murmurs of the bravery needed to visit
were paid absolutely no mind.
As Adhan is called, a sense of relief is all anyone feels.
Sitting outside of my grandmother’s house, I look up
at the night sky, littered with stars and a full moon.
This was home.