By Oumaima Hajji
Vignettes carousel around my empty house, stills of me and you running through the racing
minutes of recess, rushing to class with shattered lollipops, oreo-splits, toothless grins. Lost
games of tag, chasing apples from a leaking grocery bag. Fallen soldiers, scraping knees,
laughing on now-defunct family trees. Washed up on shore, arm in arm, played a little too
far–almost drowned. Sun-tickled on the back, on the side, ribs unrestrained, shouting over your
frail skin. Glee-soaked sand, sea-salt saliva slashing our ballooned mouths. I palm my eyes, close
off the blinds. I’d dial your number but our ride’s ended.
Oumaima H. is a Moroccan writer who lives and writes surrounded by the French Alps. When she is not working on a new story, she’s most likely rereading her favorite manga.
Hot Pot Magazine 