Laila

My small fist slowly warming the coolness of the iron loop. An oval loop, its stem toothed. The taste of iron when I took it in my mouth, the first thing I knew. I would lean my small head against my mother’s chest. My fist holding the key. It opened the door to our house, the old house, the one we lost. My mother’s voice low, hoarse, the lullaby slow: Everyone we love has gone away. When I come to greet the fig tree, no one is there to ask me in. The good nights now are gone. Everyone we love has gone away. But sorrow never lasts forever. My mother’s voice, hoarse and low.