holding out holding on
on the phone to my friend one night i asked what if i made him up? what if he doesn’t exist?
months later my mother sees me sitting quietly on the stairs of our home and says macaanto, if you exist, then he exists.
i visit my father and we drink tea in his small apartment. when i’m about to leave he tells me you are smart and some men will be scared of that, but you are progressive so love the progressive ones.
i think about what colour his skin will be, the sound of his voice, his laugh, if he’ll arrive with a beard or grow one as a dare, if he’ll find islam through me, or come with the 99 names sweetening his breath, if he’ll come at all, if he’ll be tired or weary and how i’ll know it’s even him?
i don’t know, the dream…
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