amal
“The more clearly you understand yourself and your emotions, the more you become a lover of what is.”
I’ve been collecting moments like pennies pulled from the fountain. The coins are rusted and leave a bit of a stain in your hand when you remove them from the wet. It’s worth fishing them out, despite your legs getting cold and my dress is damp at the shins. I stripped my socks and shoes but forgot to tie my dress back. It will dry, eventually. I wanted the copper coins to weigh me down. I need something to hold me in one place and money seemed like a good choice. Nothing slows people down like greed. I could have picked up pebbles, but I’m sick of carrying around dirt. I wanted something man-made to hold in my hand- something to vibrate and move with the sound I cast into it. Money talks and the words are sometimes sweet but mostly sour. The kindest people I know offer more than they have to give. This is how I shared a sheet of wafer cookies at the edge of the desert with a crew of strangers dressed in the sand. I brought a small fig loaf with cardamom and walnuts and cut it into slivers to pass around with a bit of apple. There flies one penny tossed back into the water. In the next scene, I’m running along the boardwalk and it’s dark out so my white shoes mirror the moon. Blanch and Noir are with me so I don’t feel threatened when the boys show up on their bikes. They wear dark hoodies so I can’t see their faces and whip by me in zig zags. Pretending to hit me until they do not miss; if that happened, it would be an accident even though we all know it is intentional. I don’t need the dogs to get a whiff of fear and lust. Hatred is born of misunderstanding. I toss another penny back to the pool. In the final scene, the bell rings and I get up from the white rug to answer the black door. There’s a woman in a black dress with a child at her breast and another in her hand. She looks up to the blue sky and says, bismella, and I don’t understand until the little girl holds out a palm. I shut the door without giving anything and go back inside and sit in the fluffy rug in my fancy clothes and wonder what I will make for dinner. The mother's prayers keep me awake at night, and no matter how many coins I collect, I cannot erase the child’s empty palms from my memory.
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