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Kindle Notes & Highlights
We stare at each other’s faces, scared yet happy that, so far, our lives have been spared.
Mother forgot the cake in the oven, the bomb smoke mixed with the burnt chocolate and strawberry.
A father wakes up at night, sees the random colors on the walls drawn by his four-year-old daughter. The colors are about four feet high. Next year, they would be five. But the painter has died in an air strike. There are no colors anymore. There are no walls.
When we die, our souls leave our bodies, take with them everything they loved in our bedrooms: the perfume bottles, the makeup, the necklaces, and the pens. In Gaza, our bodies and rooms get crushed. Nothing remains for the soul. Even our souls, they get stuck under the rubble for weeks.
If I am going to die, let it be a clean death. No rubble over my corpse, no broken dishes or glasses, and not many cuts in my head or chest. Leave my ironed untouched jackets and pants in the closet, so I may wear some of them again at the funeral.
