But American warplanes and war plans followed her to Iraq years later, under a US president who was the son of the president who bombed Iraq when we still lived in Kuwait. This time they reduced Babylon, that once splendid, sophisticated, ancient civilization, to nothing. They made beggars of her teachers, taxi drivers of her doctors; and they made off with her treasures and artifacts. Um Buraq had arrived in Jordan in that thick human stream of refugees in the spring of 2003. “Americans are the devil,” she said.

Bitterness is hard to keep away. Um Buraq sighs, flashing the gap in her teeth. “It sure is a beautiful world, though,” she says, surveying the grandeur of our planet, knowing her days are few.

That is all we say about sickness and war.

“Do you think it means anything that we both ended up imprisoned?” Um Buraq asks.

“It means fate lacks imagination,” I say, but I sit with the question. “Or maybe it just proves the state will always find a way to imprison those who are truly free, who do not accept social, economic, or political chains.”

That is all we say about prison. We return home, where I paint her nails and give her a facial.

I spend more time outside of my room. I return to making body creams from olive and coconut oils, and I rub them into Um Buraq’s papery skin. Her hair has fallen out, and she doesn’t need eyebrow threading or hair dye. Or waxing. “Look at your bare pussy,” I say. “Like a little baby girl’s.”

“Goddamn pussy brings nothing but shit. It might as well be another asshole,” she says. “Just rub that good lotion on my thighs and leave my business alone.”

My mother and I speak more. I fix her hair, thread her brows, and care for her as I do for Um Buraq. We go for a walk every day around the neighborhood. Sound bothers me less.

Twice a week, Um Buraq and I go to the hammam bathhouse, and when we’ve been scrubbed and oiled, I paint her nails, draw her eyebrows, and outline her eyes with kohl. The hammam attendant knows and likes us. She gives us the best hot rooms, and we tip her well. Um Buraq gets money from some of her old clients in Kuwait who softened over the years as they watched helplessly the devastation of Iraq and Palestine, and who now are moved to act in the service of their guilt and nostalgia.