Hama

Listening

I stare out the window as if the sky could speak. A cloud blows from home, Ezra, my uncle’s name before he changed it. Would it have made any difference if he’d known the word means blue where his father first learned words? I can’t yet understand.

I listen, separate the sounds—whistles, shouts, doors open and close, shoes scrape stone, a muffled television, phones and bells. At my door a young boy holds up a red rug with words. Opening the door a crack I see what I can’t say and only guess what’s said.