The Arsonists' City

by Hala Alyan

There is a relief in telling the truth, like ice water against hot skin.

“You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

The violin changed everything. Suddenly the beating wings in Naj’s chest didn’t matter, nor did the rage that shook her wordless—she didn’t need words anymore. She could play.

Idris, you’re really very lovely, but this isn’t about you at all.

Resignation is a kind of miracle,

One morning she’d shut her eyes and never open them again. She’s not as sad at the thought as she might once have been.

the not-doing that she’s done for years, is infinitely worse,

anchored in a way that’s deeply gloomy—there’s no pretense of impermanence here.

But it is a small mercy, how time distills what we know, how it fictionalizes it.

everything that aches between her chest and teeth, all the unnamed things that she had to lose to know what she loved, the time she thought she had so much more of.

He’s her father. The only one she has.

You saw it in the hospital all the time, the way people’s prayers got tangled with their fears.

Forgetting is worth the pleasure of remembering.