Howl

I’m howling, howling in Cairo. I jump off my chair. I hug the closest thing to me, the gray corner of my room, my head glued to it like a stamp so eager to travel. Books on the shelf, they listen to the whispers of my nose as it smells the old paint, as it searches for the fingers of the mason beneath the paint. My nose hears the mason’s radio playing Om Kolthoum and news about the Uprising nearby. My nose smells the burning tires and stones thrown by young hands. I open my eyes to the image of my mother on my phone handing me oranges she picked from a tree that’s now under the rubble, but that continues to howl in the wind. 

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