The Ocean Would Paint Me Blue

Syria

Mama, when I close my eyes, I see her through yours.

Your memories are in my dreams. I feel the soft soil crumble under your bare feet.

The kiss of the breeze makes me shiver, and when I lay my hand in the sea, the blue climbs along my arms and ribs.

Mama, the blue is warm and fills my chest as if the sea is inside me.

The sea speaks to me, tells me the stories hidden under his depths.

Of the drowned and the lost. Of what was stolen and taken.

Of last breaths and tears becoming one with him.

Mama, I hear the voices of our ancestors.

Mama, I don’t think these are your memories.

Mama, does she know I think of her?

I am far, too far, and I feel the thread breaking.

I am nearly untethered, desperately trying to paint her to life.

Mama, my bed is made from iron and steel, and my bones ache for the warmth of the moss and autumn leaves.

My face craves the sunlight smattering across my cheeks.

Mama, do the ancestors know we pray for them?

Mama, do they know we wish we followed in their footsteps?

Mama, their blood has made this land grow peaches and pomegranates.

I’m not sure if their blood has passed down to me.

I’m scared the distance has made it diluted.

Mama, do you think they know what happened to us?

Do you think they cry under layers of soil they love, hearing us scream above the ground?

Do you think they will embrace us when we finally meet in the heavens?

Mama, I am tired of fighting, but I have no other choice.

I dream of peace in my heart, body, and soul.

I dream of endless summer days where the weight of being who I am in this world isn’t my sin.

I dream of a land that knows echoes of me.

I dream of becoming a fish, swimming to the deepest depths of the sea no living being has ever seen.

My arms turn to wings, and I fly high, high, higher until all I see is my country.

I am a blade of grass, the drop of courage, the warmth in a mother’s eyes, the sliver of moonlight guiding the path, the lilt of voices speaking in Arabic, the curve of the curlicues, the ink in the calligraphy inscribing poetry on marble walls, the sunrise orange, and the twilight blue.

Mama, when I go back to her, will I see you there?