Safaa pressed an aghabani scarf to her face as she sobs, hiding. Her sister had bought her the scarf as a farewell gift the last time they had visited the souk together.
Some of the silk flowers were unraveling, red and blue stitches busted through days of wringing it tightly while reading the international section of the paper. During the nights she spoke with her sister by phone, she had squeezed the linen fabric soft in her damp hands. The edges were frayed where she bit them to stop herself from begging her sister to just leave and get out of Damascus. She knew her sister wouldn’t leave the orphans.
The stall they had bought the scarf in, deep in the labyrinth of the Souk was now rubble. Safaa pushed the fabric into her eyelids with her thumbs, hoping that she won’t see the remains of her family home on the news.
Sarah Bonnar 