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the foreign daughter
of one language into another,
I will never succeed, there will
always be differences. Though
translation is a pleasant
diversion, and at least a
palpable way to attempt
to bring our realities closer
together, and one I’ve found
useful ever since we came
here. Of course, I was thinking
about that to avoid thinking
about her, my mother, or
staring at her for one last
time and revealing what my
intentions were, in case she
saw I was saying goodbye.
I’m surprised she doesn’t
have an inkling about my
plans, because she’s a woman
who knows everything, who
dreams about who will be sick
and who will die, and the sex
of the babes who are yet to
be born.
I looked at her out of the
corner of my eye as I put the
sugar in my coffee. She’d not
said her prayers yet, her face
is wet and her head bare. I
tried to remember her tiny
curls that still linger on even
though she’d tamed her hair
with her narrow, tortoiseshell
comb and the usual olive oil.
The parting down the middle
of her head allows her hair
to display her broad, regal
forehead. The forehead of a
woman from the Rif, the face
of a true Tamazight from head
to toe, a fine lady if ever there
was one. Always admirable
and admired, inside and out.
Her integrity is known to every
woman in the city, to every
Moroccan woman, that is.
The others couldn’t care less
about a headscarf-wearing
immigrant. A reputation that
crosses continents, renown
that crosses continents
when one of those gossipers
mentions her to their family
in a Sunday phone-call. I’m