She is making yebra for dinner, will I come home for that at least? Yes, I will, I say. I stand in the hallway untying my boots. My father under the living-room lamps sits cross-legged, the blue hues of the TV dance on his brown corduroy pants. Clashes in Douma continued today.
I struggle for a hanger, open the garage door, find a bag of extras. The TV drones, another peace conference in Geneva starts Thursday. I hang my coat, wrap my scarf gently. Look in the mirror. Adjust my shirt. My mother announces dinner, and we gather. Our conversation flows Mohammad got relocated to Salimyeh // Oh, that’s close to the front. Right? // I need your help translating a refugee statement, it’s for Samar // Have you seen this new app to monitor troop movements? It updates every 24 hours. // Did you hear about Ali? His mom had a heart attack. 68. So young. // How is work? Have you been busy? You haven’t visited in three weeks.
Blue hues of the TV dance against the empty couch. I do not visit for another three weeks
