I count my children
every night
before pretending to fall asleep
I count their feet
their hands
and fingers pointing to the heart
I gather them alone
like birds gathering their chicks
without teaching them what it means to lose
When the sound of death comes close
I gasp over them
surround them with the breath from my mouth
full of prayer
One scared evening
or a frightened morning
I started counting them:
Ehab is here
and Suad
and that birthmark above Khaled’s left foot
and golden hair
on Yusra’s forehead
Where is Sami?
I screamed
and began searching for him:
inside the sack of flour
on the shelf with canned food
at the camp’s entrance
in every alley
in the neighbors’ sight…
until someone said to me:
“Calm down, mother of Sami,
Sami died since the start of the war.”
I screamed at him:
I ran my fingers over his at night
felt them
and slept in his embrace…
Can I hold the dead?
In the morning
only his folded blanket remained
and the scent of his hand
on my shirt’s sleeve
I pulled back the blanket
and how cold it is
to sleep under it aloneSince that day
I stopped counting
