I cried when we left Port Sudan to Khartoum, she said.

I sat on the stool in my new kitchen and sang to the friends I left behind
to the sea
the tea
the incense

as much for the laughter that gathered us, as for the sorrow that felt less
because we had each other.

My lovely Port Sudan, my kind Port Sudan.

A tear runs down her face, she wipes it with the hem of her toub, smiles, and says, We had a good life

Gradually, her smile, wistful, breaks

Looking at me she says, my friends,
they are all dead now.