Susie Gharib
The life we never had

We begin each day with a smile-lit Buongiorno,
with a lengthy hug that grants me the power to endure
a day of toil in a hive of ill-tempered folk.

I walk into the shower with my favorite bar of soap.
The stains on my psyche are washed with those that are air-borne.
I slip into what cannot be worn before the multitude.

In the kitchen, we debate what food is to be cooked.
You want to indulge me, but I opt for an onion soup.
I savor the evening with Scrabble and Lexicon.

I instantly react to your distracted look.
With excitement, I pick up the muted remote control.
It’s Rowan Atkinson heralding bouts of very loud joy.

Though too old to be graced with your nocturnal protocol,
you cannot but visit my darkened room,
illuminating with a candle my half-covered form,
in the middle of a storm.

I cannot comprehend the prayers you intone.
I never had the chance to learn your mother tongue,
but I know you’re loath to part until tomorrow morn.