Malkh

When I think of my ancestors,

I think of the person who felt the sun's warmth and decided to give her a name.

I think of the shared black tea that quieted words whenever the cups touched their lips.

I think of the symmetrical patterns woven into fleece before they were dyed in color, 

the warmth they emitted against shivering skin 

and the flimsy hands making sure they turn out perfectly.

The kneading of dough and

the hospitality of a table where no one leaves hungry.

I think of the mothers humming lullabies for their children in the safety of their arms, 

of the mountains and greenery,

watchtowers with carved symbols of their old gods,

I think of solidarity.

But if you ask me twice,

I would also think of the rubble and smell of gunpowder.

The begging, pleading and frozen air, the nurse burying her own blood in mud,

and the trudging of heavy, hard boots against the gravel.

Heads buried in hole-covered fleece for one last hug of warmth.

Who is left to pray to if the gods have long died?

I think of the click of a gun and lights dimming.

Shattering doors and windows,

Once comforting smell of tea penetrated by the sting of fear.

If you ask me thrice,

I no longer know the sun's name.