So I’m two years-old and, because I’m special, I was given
a miracle: I can tell you my thoughts. I don’t know where I’m from, or where I
am now, or where I’m going. I can only tell you what I’ve experienced
so far.
Are you ready?
Here we go:
I filled my stomach on my mother’s milk when I was smaller. It was warm and plenty.
I slept on my father’s shoulder when I was too tired to
walk. It was comfortable and wide.
I smelled my grandmother’s breath when she kissed me
every morning. It was fruity and sweet.
I bounced on my grandfather’s lap when he tried to stop
my crying. It was soft and a bit awkward.
I popped soap bubbles my older brother blew in my face
when we bathed. It was fun and magical.
I kicked a football around and didn’t fall on my face for
the first time. Everyone clapped for me.
I danced with my cousins to derbakkeh drums and oud
strings. I liked the way their music moved my body.
I heard noises coming from the sky. They sounded like
thunder, but were not followed by rain, only ash and cement chunks. It was too loud.
I hid in a closet to wait for the man with the heavy
boots and long shiny rifle to leave our house. It was scary.
I crawled under metal wire with sharp spikes. They hurt
when my skin caught on them.
I felt the sun burn too close, too hot. The only moisture
came from my mother’s eyes.
I saw my uncle lie very still in the street, a circle of
red paint spread around his head.
I bobbed up and down on a boat. I was sick. I only saw
water.
I slipped through my father’s hands. I didn’t float.
I heard him cry. His voice went hoarse.
I swallowed water. It was too salty.
I breathed sand through my nose.
I am cold, very cold.