Cumulonimbus
Kathryn Silver-Hajo
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Mama used to sing to Sami and me at night, sounds of yearning emerging from deep in her chest like a trapped owl was trying to escape. Most mornings, Baba walked us to school, and he’d say he needed quiet so he could plan his day. But when Mama took us, she’d point to the sky and say, the ones like ghazal-al-banat from the Ramadan fair, they’re cumulus. They taste just like spun sugar. Those resembling the feathers of a white dove were cirrus, she said. She’d gaze at the slow-shifting shapes like she wished she could float along with them. But when the world darkened, the rumble and roar neared, and we closed our jackets against the bluster—that was cumulonimbus.
When Mama got angry with us for complaining about school or chores, she’d growl that we were ungrateful brats. Try one day in a refugee camp, without running water or electricity, shit running in a channel through the middle of the street, mocking us, as if our lives were shit. She’d remind us that even though she got the highest grades at school, a scholarship to the best university, her father hadn’t let her go because she was needed at home. I’d hide in the broom closet when she talked like that, ashamed, shaken, and sad. She’d pull me out, say, but I do make the best stuffed eggplant in all of Beirut, press two liras into my palm, send Sami and me to the market for a sackful of the tiniest ones we could find because those were the tenderest. She’d sauté, core and stuff each one, simmer them until the house sang with aromas of sweet spices, lamb and onions.
One time, Baba said I should climb the stairs to the roof, help Mama gather laundry from the line. There were white sheets, underwear, and t-shirts snapping around in the wind, smelling of cotton and electricity, but no Mama, until I noticed her standing too near the edge looking toward the horizon at the storm clouds gathering there, thunder and lightning rumbling around inside them like wasps in a hive. I tiptoed over to her so she wouldn’t hear, took her hand and tugged. Mama, please come inside. I’ll make the whole dinner if you’ll just sing to me. She turned slowly, sighed. All right, habibti, she said, squeezing my hand. Like everything was all right.
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Kathryn Silver-Hajo’s work appears, or is forthcoming, in Atticus Review, Centaur Lit, CRAFT, Emerge Literary, Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Milk Candy Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Pithead Chapel, Ruby Literary, The Phare, and other lovely journals. Her stories were selected for the 2023 and 2024 Wigleaf Top 50 Longlists and nominated for Best of the Net, Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and Best American Food Writing. Kathryn’s books include award-winning flash collection, Wolfsong, and award-winning novel, Roots of The Banyan Tree. More at: kathrynsilverhajo.com; facebook.com/kathryn.silverhajo; twitter.com/KSilverHajo; @kathrynsilverhajo.bsky.social; instagram.com/kathrynsilverhajo
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