we come in pairs

a poem

after my grandmother died,
mom tried to ignore the way
grandpa's hands began to shake

she’d look away from his struggle,
the way his skin thinned against his skull,
the way his cheeks grew hollow

and his hands - his hands would shake
as he lit his morning cigarettes,
something he’d done my entire life with such dedicated composure

when i reached out to kiss his knuckles,
he wouldn’t smile like he used to,
but stare down at me with confusion

جدو
أنا أمل
عرفتني؟¹

his death was swift: his funeral quick
only one year after her, and his last words were:
جيبولي شماغي، ناطريني²

me, i can't join my uncles dinner
because i can't bear the distant look his wife’s mother gives me
it reminds me of my jeddo before he died

and her wide, vintage Palestinian eyes,
remind me too much of mine

hers had spent decades looking up at the same man
who’d disappeared from her side
years ago now

and ever since she’s been confused,
forgetful,
amnesia has taken her

but she’s still looking, i can see it
even if she doesn’t understand it, she’s still waiting
palm outstretched, surprised by the empty air that meets it

when i press my lips to her cheeks in greeting
i can almost feel her longing, her missing

sometimes i wake in the middle of the night
with that same feeling: that same animal instinct
where?

sometimes i wake
with my hand already knotted in yours
and when i try to lull myself back to sleep,

i match your breaths, your ins and your outs,
and we become one.
like that.

and i hope we die this way: in this same moment
so that i never have to live with that strike of pain
that comes from your absence

they say god made us in pairs,
and sometimes, when i wake in the night,
you pull me in closer, without waking,

instinct.

if you go first, my love, i will be patient and still
i will hold our daughters’ hand with my shaking limbs,
and i will tell her

i am ready,
not to worry,
for god makes us in pairs

if you go first, my love, i will wait,
in our bed. in our kitchen. in our home. with our children.
i will wait, half-dazed, half of my heart already buried

if you go first, i will wait
and i will berate Death when he comes,
for his foul timing, for his unbearable lateness

for god made us in pairs,
which means i am only myself
when i am beside you

which means there are only two prayers my lips are capable of:
when they’re pressed against yours
and when they’re asking god
to never let them be without your touch

1. “Grandpa, it’s Amal, do you know me?”

2. “Bring me my [Jordanian headpiece], they're waiting for me”