Sarah Afaneh, rays of the same sun

rays of the same sun

Sarah Afaneh

as for we who delve into nostalgia

i have a scar on the top of my head from the time my brother threw a toy at it while we were cleaning out the basement of our first house in Ohio. it bled my mom panicked i cried he laughed my dad home in a breeze. we are made of flesh bones blood. life and death in our hands? the world a more painful place to live in. green grass and fountains of water splash us, i do not remember what they are called but Maryam loved them. love is a silly game. Aya told me to trust my gut. tea with mint in the morning accompanied by stories of a past disrupted by war. distant memories become familiar words. i never found out what thoughts occupied her. shawerma reminds me of cobblestone Istanbul and naivety. the past can(not) be erased. mama’s lipstick collection evolved into my own. eight planets in the universe did it start with a collision? lemons grow on a tree in my grandfather’s backyard; in the middle, there is a swing set built from a block of wood, held together by two strings. i have lost familiarity.

one begins as a daughter but becomes a black hole

my sister and i together every morning like clockwork; chocolate milk and swirly ice cream feels like home. tip-toe around the house so as not to get caught. memories, we veil some forget others. i watched nothingness atop a cliff overlooking mountains amidst the clouds. holes of nature. holes of tranquility. holes of forgetfulness. hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me. hidden cafes in Prague. are you scared of the unfamiliar words that roll off my tongue too quickly to understand even if you could? green tea no sugar. black coffee. how do you tell someone that it doesn’t get better? he is a man i will never trust but love dearly. our love

is undeserved. memories hold a tighter grip than reality does. the wind against your face in a speeding car, that is freedom.

yet we insist that it happens for a reason

sitting on a wooden porch, a book in one hand, green tea in the other. crystal clear memory. Aya. three summers after we lived in the same room and she listened to podcasts about serial killers every night. to understand the way the world turns you have to run with it. collision with myself. the first time she cried i did not know what to do. the top of a ferris wheel is that what God feels like? our bodies sway to Lana Del Ray. maybe we’re all pretending. pink cotton candy. my sisters convinced me to go on a ride that spun upside down my stomach hurt in a good way. do you draw outside of the lines? a day at the beach windy blue sea sand stuck beneath my toenails. do you crave cosmic relief too