On my knees, beside his bed, I hold his hand and plead:

Pray, pray, I beg you,

pray.

He weeps an ocean.

I rush to get towels.

I knock on Ali’s door and Thuraya’s door

and Awatif’s door.

Towels!, I yell,

Towels, Towels!

They all hurry to grab as many towels as they can.

I run back home hugging a heap of towels

— too many for one woman to carry.

The towels clung to my chest,

my steps

become slow

my feet sink

lower.

Mud.

I have the towels, I scream.

As if towels will cure his sadness.

But I was certain.

Just as I was certain olive oil would cure it.

Just as I was certain

my love, would cure it.

Just

as I was certain

my prayers

would cure it.

So I scream,

I have the towels,

It will be okay.

We will

the towels still to my chest, I lean to the side,

push the door open

a river pushes through me. I want to help it

, but

I am floating

the whole neighborhood

is floating.

Doors unhinged, baskets

floating,

babies,

crying

parents,

crying.

No, I say,

stop. Please.

Every one. It will only get

worse.

Please.

Pl