My Friends

by Hisham Matar

This, I now know, is what is meant by grief, a word that sounds like something stolen, picked out of your pocket when you least expect it. It takes a long time to learn the meaning of a word, particularly a word like that, or perhaps all words, even ones as simple as “you” or “me.” But that day, sitting opposite Mustafa, I felt I had no need for words, no need to translate or sum up or exchange an experience for a set of sentences.

“Friend. What a word. Most use it about those they hardly know. When it is a wondrous thing.”