Layal Oues
Executive Fiction Editor
My mother used to build buildings in Beirut,
Long before I was born.
When she was the same age as I,
Their windows overlook the sea.
“Next summer”, she promises, recalling the grandeur of it all.
Next summer she’ll point out each and every building to me,
Recounting their every detail
As we walk down the glistening shores
In the beautiful city of Beirut.
My mother, who hasn’t been to Beirut in 10 years,
Who repeats the same promise every summer,
Promises to siblings and cousins that next summer will be her turn,
That they’ll sit together in Teta’s house,
The house she grew up in—
The house all 9 of her siblings grew up in,
In the beautiful city of Beirut.
The building behind my mother’s house was bombed.
Set ablaze by Israeli missiles.
Fire doesn’t discriminate in its raging path—
Not even in the places most personal,
In the beautiful city of Beirut.
My mother cannot promise to visit this summer.
She cannot promise to show me the buildings she built.
The buildings that overlook the sea,
Catching the sun in all their glory.
She cannot promise to sit with her family in her childhood home—
Her home which may no longer be standing,
As the missiles continue to rain down,
Burning a hole in every alley,
In her beautiful city of Beirut.