Recovering Talkalakh

I remember that jasmine bush. 

But I’d forgotten the yellow couch.

I can’t bear our small faces in the videos.

My precious cousins, pixelated.

Those humid Syrian summers.

The rusting fan. Mulberry cone melting.

When did my mother stop writing,

what happened to the pear tree,

and our small faces?

Maybe I regret recovering the tapes.

This is my fourth cup of coffee.

I am so alive it gnaws.

My cousins have traveled wide and far.

Every recording is a fatal attempt

to save time. I swear I smell the stationary shop

next door. Glitter and felt pens. 

My grandfather is dead.

And what is childhood, anyways? 

The stranger who won’t leave.