The Balcony
by Batool Alzubi
Talkalakh, Syria
Before March, Sameera and her parents lived on the fifth floor. She felt like she was on top of Talkalakh whenever she stood on their long balcony. The balcony, Baba would say. The balcony is the reason why I bought this apartment. She watched Baba turn into a still figure whenever he talked about one of his decisions. She would watch him as he held the metallic railing, and it almost looked like his long fingers were blending with the metal. The metal absorbed the heat during Syria’s hot summer, burning any hands that touched it. Sameera and Omar eventually turned it into a game: for how long can you keep your hands on the railing? She loved watching Omar lose. You are crazy, he would cry as he walked away from the balcony. The balcony was used for all of the Dandashi family’s celebrations. Birthdays, graduations and Mama’s fortune coffee readings. Sameera watched Aunt Lama swirl the leftover coffee grounds of Mama’s cup. Three times, she counted. Sameera sat next to Mama, and she could feel her hesitation in the process. Aunt Lama turned it upside down, the dark grounds spilling on the round glass table they placed between the three of them.
“Wait for it to dry,” Aunt Lama said as she crossed her long legs and leaned away from the cup. Sameera knew that guilt crept inside Mama’s chest whenever she believed in the process Aunt Lama completed.
“You know, Lama,” Mama said as she played with the tassels of her hijab. “I heard that our prayers aren’t accepted for forty days and nights if we believe in what’s inside the cup.”
“We are doing it for fun. Do you really believe in this?” Aunt Lama held the cup, pointing it towards Mama.
Mama murmured something under her breath that Sameera tried to make sense of. She loved watching Mama in moments of doubt. Mama always seemed like a believer in everything around her, a woman with no questions, and Sameera envied her for it. She wondered if Mama came out of her mother’s womb with answers to everything. She never saw her miss a prayer or argue against a verse. When Mama questioned her fortune telling actions, Sameera noticed Mama’s crossed arms and the rocking back and forth in her chair.
A bird. A bag. Look at the road. No, that’s a door. An Ear. A ring. An arrow. A bee. An eye. Oh no, that’s a big eye. A boat. A tree. At least, you have a tree. A cow. A rabbit. Do you see the mouse? A snake. Look at your sun. Sameera continued to listen to Aunt Lama as she swirled the cup. Sameera saw the bird and the eye.
“Do you see a ring for Sameera,” Mama said.
Sameera grabs the cup from Aunt Lama’s hand. “I see a bird.’
“I see a small ring,” Aunt Lama moves Sameera’s hand and the cup closer to her eyes. “There is a road connected to the ring. It looks like it’s not happening anytime soon.”
Sameera looked at Mama’s hopeful face. Even when Sameera held the cup, Mama’s attention was on what Aunt Lama was going to say next.
Sameera was familiar with Mama’s habit of fixing her hijab when she tried to ignore what she heard. “Do you really believe this superstitious nonsense?” Mama said.
“A bird means news,” Sameera could sense when Mama was uncomfortable, and she wanted to continue.
“I’m going to pray,” Mama stood.
Batool Alzubi is a first-year English PhD student with an emphasis on creative writing and Middle Eastern Literature at Oklahoma State University. She published two fiction pieces, "Illegally Alive" by Bacopa Review and "Not One of Ms. Aisha's Stories" by Santa Ana River Review.