My lips part and a desire awakens in my heart. “Do we even deserve to see them, Kenan?” I whisper after a minute, and from his expression, I know he understands I’m not talking about colors. Survivor’s remorse is a second skin we are cursed to wear forever.
He looks away, his lips drawn tight, because this isn’t an easy question to answer. Time is the best medicine to turn our bleeding wounds to scars, and our bodies might forget the trauma, our eyes might learn to see colors as they should be seen, but that cure doesn’t extend to our souls.
It doesn’t. Time doesn’t forgive our sins, and it doesn’t bring back the dead.
I fidget with the twig. “You don’t have to answer that.”
He looks at me guiltily. “Salama—”
I shake my head. “Let’s sit here for a while, okay? Before the next storm hits.”
He cracks his knuckles and nods, stray strands of his hair catching in his eyelashes.
We sit side by side, resting our hands on the pavement, fingers inches away from one another. And I can’t remember the last time my mind was so quiet, comfortable in the unspoken words filling the silence.
And it’s in this silence I replay the fleeting look in his eyes when he held me.
Longing.
“WE’LL DEFINITELY NEED A CHANGE OF CLOTHES,” Layla exclaims, rushing through the corridor from the kitchen to the living room to my room and back again.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, counting our money.
Two thousand and thirty dollars.
Five hundred will go to Am at the end of this month along with the gold necklace.
My mind whirs with plan after plan for how we’ll survive on foreign soil with so little. Will the man driving us to Munich also demand some sort of payment? Am said it was all inclusive, but you can never know what will happen beyond the sea. Greed is an illness and it won’t take pity on the weak and desperate.
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we get there.
I look up to see Layla standing breathless in front of me, her eyes shining with newfound excitement. Now there’s a clear goal in front of her. Something solid to hang on to and invest all her energy in.
“We’ll pack two hoodies and three pairs of jeans. Is that enough?”
I nod, thinking. “Nothing heavy, though. Like blankets or something. It’ll weigh us down.”
She looks at me pointedly. “And it’s going to be March when we leave. As in the weather will befreezing. You’re allowed one thing that keeps you warm.”
I sigh. “Fine. A coat, then. And we only get one outfit each to balance the weight!”
She pouts, throwing me a sad look. Layla was a fashion icon. She was a walking piece of art that could have been hung in the Louvre, radiating inspiration. And now she’s being forced to give up the identity she forged for herself.
“We’ll buy more in Germany,” I reassure her, and her eyes light up. “New jeans, blouses. Everything. We’ll even have a moolid for Little Salama. A celebration for her.”
An astonished joyful smile lights up her face, but it quickly vanishes into guilt. “No, it’s fine. We don’t have to do… especially since Hamza—”
I shake my head. “It’s what he would have wanted. You and me celebrating his daughter.”
I hold out my hand and she takes it.
“You’re my sister and I love you.” I squeeze it. “I want us to be happy for Little Salama.”
Her smile is gentle. “Happiness starts here, Salama. In this home. In Old Homs. Remember?”
I remember Kenan and the way he sat with me yesterday until my breathing was calm. I remember the longing creased in his eyes.
Longing for me.
