The envelope is addressed to Mr. Naseem Deeb, in a cursive font printed in deep, royal-blue ink. My thumb traces every letter, to be sure it is there, then I turn the envelope over and break the seal.
The Commonwealth of Massachusetts
United States of America
Certificate of Birth
The words sound warm in my head; they trickle like honey. The paper is thick and luxuriously heavy. Its weight on my palm is sober and safe. This is not a dream. I press the document against the incubator’s transparent wall.
“Look, little one. Look…”
Naseem is drifting in his world, untouched and unmarked by ours.
“That’s your name, ya zghir.”
This is your ticket. Out of that box, this room, to a world different, so different from mine. It’s magnificent. I see it.
You’ll say your first words in English, take your first steps on grass, know the smell of earth after September rain. You will know snow, build snowmen. You will know how to throw a baseball, and Teta’s lullabies, and the taste of peanut butter, sumac, thyme, toasted pine nuts.
Your sun will rise over an ocean. Mine rose, for the longest time, over arid mountains. Naseem, your sun will rise over liquid horizons. Those will be wider and farther than even I could ever dream. You’ll have origins, not roots. You’ll have wings. Wait till you see the sky, Naseem.
Wait till you look out the window. The earth is pink and yellow. The morning sun has colored the Charles River purple. The air itself is chiffon layers of lavender. There is so much of it, so much space. It is a very beautiful world.
Wait till you see it. Wait till we tell your father…