by Elina Katrin

The closest thing to a cloud I ever touched is lambswool. My fingers running through sheep’s back and squeezing, milking the softness into my skin. The blinding whiteness before my eyes turned into a wedding, Syrian women imitating music with their tongues. My throat didn’t bend that way.

 

The first thing I ever saw die – the lamb suspended by its back legs, belly sliced open. Grandparents danced, jumped the river of blood, cheered for the newlyweds. Mom told me not to look, I looked and squeezed her hand and didn’t know if the blood dripped from the lamb’s face or from my eyes. I looked and dad told me it’s a tradition, a good omen for love. I heard the lamb’s bleating throughout that night and soaked the pillow with vows of never getting married.

 

Today my teeta is dying of cancer and I brush my teeth with whitening toothpaste thinking about having salmon cream cheese bagels for lunch. I tell her la tubki just like she told me when the sheep was screaming and kicking for its hanged life and I asked adults to stop but they didn’t until the animal’s guts plopped on the ground like jelly straws and mother’s hand lost its protective might.