Part Two
1
The sound of the rusty swing wakes me up as though it is my grandmother’s hand waking me up to pray and prosper in the fields. And just as it used to happen on such mornings, I cover my ears under the blankets and go back to my warm dreams.
The sound of the swing is more stubborn than my grandmother’s pestering.
I sit up in bed and look around. Now, while here, in Beirut, how can I be hearing Aziz’s worn-out swing?
I don’t remember when I heard it for the first time.
Aziz—the swing’s owner—used to leave it out in the rain and the sun, from one Eid to the next, as though it wasn’t appropriate for children to swing on it, except on some momentous occasion. He used to make them yearn for it, so they would spend all their Eid money on it. They would do so willingly, as though
