The staring gets to her, as it gets to me,
and my presence makes it easier for her to bear.
I am her eldest son and since my father is ill,
it is up to me to look after her.
I walk the sidewalks
of Cypress Beach with her,
swallowing my complaints,
and smothering my quarrels.
I wear invisible blinders to block
countless pairs of probing eyes.
But today, we encounter more than stares.
After passing the bakery
and a gallery displaying paint-splattered canvases,
a slur catapults through the air,
striking Mama and me.
Her eyes widen with fear;
I want to sink into the sidewalk.
I know better than to engage,
though I cannot help but turn
when the deep voice adds,
“Go home, hajjis! You’re not welcome here!”
I flinch, my vision blurring with rage
as I look at evil incarnate.
He is a large man,
leaning casually against a brick facade.
He wears work boots with jeans,
and a vest crowded with pockets.
Copper hair, flint eyes, menacing smile.
He is foolish.
He uses the wordhajjias a slight,
