25: Class

I like to play. Be careful I am good.

When Father woke, he sighed, a tremendous breath absent morning sound.

I was awake, always ready for him, my eyes were like little folded wings

so he would not know I watch.

His spirit moved over his coffee and water. It would be

still dark when he rose, so the lights,

he made with candles. Time to wake up the day he would say.

And he would come to me

give me water and carry me

outside to say

good morning to the night sky. He gathered water for the plants

so they were ready for the sun. For who should start

work without a meal he would say. I usually would

fall from his morning

back to sleep and then wake after

the early darkness had become very bright from the big star: Sun.

The birds would be chirping, the animals would be fed

and Father would be at work, carving.

The chess board was Aleppo Stone. Father carved the pieces

from Damascus marble.

On the first day of a new piece

He would rinse its carving; in the garden

He would say every layer

pressed on top of another to form

this color, Breccia, rainbow, and He would

spend some time to play squeezing each

piece as hard as he could to make it finished.

And he would look and say it was good.

He taught me to create and play.

After so many gunshots my father took me outside in night and quiet,

once to hide

and told me, look, all those holes in the sky. A bullet hits the soul, you see.

Weapons are here because people are too small to deal with the sky,

they become crushed and alone. Looking at the sky, themselves.

They must cast a stone because the sky is too much

for them to ever fill with their voice, yet their sky is made of their words,

filled with their deeds.

The sky is our body.

The schoolhouse where we hid is removed,

in Hamad; bullets have found it,

a stone's throw away from the sky.

My teacher would like to know what child could grow up to kill children.

My Father said my teacher is wise, my teacher is God:

teachers and strangers.

The stranger is God, said my Father. And the teacher: Ms. Nooda is God.

Who would not care for God. Who is not under the sky.

Father is powder. He is in the dust

Today I will run home

with Uri; I would like to

hold her hand. She is also in the dust. She is those empty shoes.

The sun is everywhere, still and

I do not know what picture to draw

for tomorrow. Look to the sky

my Father would say everything is there. We are wide open.

Tomorrow His spirit will rise over the water, I will make him coffee.

It will smell of cardamom, rose water, saffron