She watched him die again and again, again and again all night on the all‐night news.
It was as if she too were being shot, she said.
She imagined the words
that were stuck forever in the throat of his
defending hand. Where is your brother?
He had never wanted back what had had to be mended.
Would he have wanted himself knowing he had been shot?
As never before she would have wanted him.
She had seen a tuft of threads where a button had fallen off when they told her.
She would sew it back on, sew everything back on even if
it took the rest of her life and more: “Allah is merciful.”
And she remembered her neighbours
praying forgiveness from a different God.
What was the difference?
Mohammed. “Peace be upon him.”