Through
‘She will never forget this: how powerful she feels in her own absence’
--
Love is a pendulum that beats irregularly.
The past is a broken grandfather clock.
It’s a hole.
She points to the bombed-out building. Her tiny arm is a compass needle.
She is six years old, and Beirut is a city where ugly and beautiful sit too close together.
When she visits her relatives in her grandmother’s old village, the only way she can communicate is by repeating what her cousins say in Arabic. She is the family parrot.
This is a skill she takes home. Her brother is nonverbal until age 5. For hours, she imitates him, validating his every thrash, burp, and giggle with her own reproduction. His eyes are two firecrackers. She will never forget this: how powerful she feels in her own absence, how addictive it can be — the hiding in plain sight.
At a certain point, you make a list of everything. You call her over one night, sit her down. Read it over once, twice.
You study her carefully as she nods, confused.
Say, I need you to understand that it’s time for me to do this on my own now.
When she finally leaves, you book your flight. You sing in the shower. You order a new notebook.
It’s a secret loosely kept that she visits you on occasion. How you allow her into your fresh, new spaces. Let her try on your clothes, wobble in your too-big shoes. She curls up in your lap and plays with your hair as you work in your home office. She covers her face and runs away when he tosses your name across the table in exasperation. Later, you find her frantically slipping apology letters under his door. In the kitchen on tip-toes, pouring his favorite beer.
Sometimes, she is torrential. When ugly and beautiful sit too close together. When now looks too much like then. That’s when she crawls to you, eyes feral-wide and screaming. You can never decide if she’s prey or predator.
It’s a hole. It’s a hole. It’s a hole.
No, baby.
You pick her up, eye-level. Point to the place ripped open — there.
It’s a door.
