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I am at a place where I cannot string together more than two sentences about my life.

The pomegranates have returned, as has the fear. I heard a noise the other night. “Armed burglars! Hide!,” I was mocked. “Nah, I’m not worried. There is an armed soldier with an M-16 standing outside a few steps down the block.” That was my response. Since when do I find normalcy, nonchalance and even comfort in armed soldiers and M-16s?

I live in a house that has no two walls at a perfect right angle with each other. I find comfort in the patterned floors, in the way the light filters in through the gauzy white curtain, in the crackling sound the seeds of the pomegranate make when they separate from the peel.

I know how to say cockroach in Arabic and Hebrew now. Sarsoor, the Arabic word, sounds like an onomatopoeia, as though the word is imitating the insect’s shuffling. The latest word I can read in Arabic is “brrrrrr!”, a lesson courtesy of a Coca-Cola can that seems to suggest that no matter where you are in the world, “this beverage is best enjoyed cold.”

I am observing, gliding quietly through my days, attempting to carve a place for myself. Thank you for being patient with me while I look for my words.

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