My hands are shaking and I almost laugh, because the last time someone made me shake like this, he was wearing a helmet and carrying a big black rifle over his shoulder. It was 1967 and I couldn’t understand why everyone in Ramallah was fleeing, why the world had suddenly exploded. I was running behind my mother, trying to keep up, knowing I had to because she was holding my brother Ibrahim, whose leg was bleeding. I remember shaking because I didn’t want to be left behind, and I didn’t know if my father would be up in the cave with my other brothers and my grandmother like he had promised he would be. The soldier fired once again, and my mother fell and pulled me to the ground. “Uskuti!” she ordered, and I obediently shut my mouth, making sure the bullet had not hit her or Ibrahim. No, there it was … it had made a small hole in the wall behind us. The soldier ran by us, then came back and looked. I screamed and covered my eyes. I heard him laugh, but when I opened my eyes, he was gone.

I walk to the small writing table in the living room, and take out a piece of paper. I write a letter, like I’ve seen in “Dear Abby.” I address it to Hanan, and prop open my grammar book to help me with the tenses and constructions.

Dear Hanan,

I would like for you to know that you hurt my emotions yesterday and today. Adult people have emotions like children, and we are also available to be hurt …

After I finish it, I fry some chicken for dinner and I don’t even burn it that badly—a small accomplishment. I make a fattoush salad, with toasted pita bread tossed in like croutons among the lettuce, parsley, tomatoes, and lemon. I stir a pitcher of iced tea, the kind from the can. Hanan hates the homemade, brewed kind. I learned that a long time ago.

I set a small candle on the table, jasmine scented. Hanan and Michel come home usually around the same time, at 6:00, and I’ll light it then. I place the letter by her plate, propped up against her pink Barbie glass. My hands are no longer shaking and I hope that my writing will be clear, that she will focus on my meaning, not on the way I unintentionally misspell words or incorrectly conjugate verbs. I hope that she will not look up after reading it and declare that she needs to think, then retreat to her room and swing her leg while shutting me out. I hope that she will not toss my letter casually in her purple and silver wastebasket and wish that I was more like Kristen’s mother. I hope that I will be enough.

Costumes

Costumes