by Sanad Tabbaa
We followed the mosque motorcade to the graveyard. The first thing I saw when I stepped out of the car was a rusted, burned-out barrel. On the ground next to it was a sun-bleached container for a pair of underwear, one of those plasticky cardboard ones with a buff guy on the front. They’d already mostly buried him. It was hot and they wanted to be done as quickly as possible.
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I posted an excerpt of Enayat on my story, and one of my old college classmates messaged me, “Did you know my mom wrote this book?” I didn’t. I told him to tell her I was a fan of the book. I sat for a while and wondered about obsession.
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Return is inherently an experiment in phenomenology; to go or come back is a beckoning of how to arrive.
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