The Map of Salt and Stars

by Zeyn Joukhadar

When Mama painted a map and a compass rose, Baba pointed out invisible sea monsters in the margins.

When he lost his voice, I told the ending. Then the story was ours.

“Every place you go becomes a part of you.” “But none more so than home.”

“Stories are powerful,” he said, “but gather too many of the words of others in your heart, and they will drown out your own. Remember that.”

“Just because you add to something doesn’t mean it was broken. Maybe it just wasn’t finished.”

“Stones don’t have to be whole to be lovely,” he says. “Even cracked ones can be polished and set. Small diamonds, if they are clear and well cut, can be more valuable than big ones with impurities.

“stories ease the pain of living, not dying. People always think dying is going to hurt. But it does not. It’s living that hurts us.”

“If you don’t know the tale of where you come from,” he said, “the words of others can overwhelm and drown out your own. So, you see, you must keep careful track of the borders of your stories, where your voice ends and another’s begins.” The wind rustled the olive leaves, seeming to shake the stars. “Then stories map the soul,” Rawiya said, “in the guise of words.”

But even painful things,” she says, “are often veined with blessings we can’t yet see.”