The nephew of Shaimaa Abdullah Abughadyeen. Photo: Fatma Sameer

For my nephew

Maybe in another life,
you would have lost your tooth,
instead of your eye.
Maybe blood would have meant a scraped knee,
not a night the sky shattered into our house.
Maybe in another life,
your eyes would have stayed
untouched,
both of them,
wide and curious,
asking questions about cartoons
and candy.

They say you will have a new eye,
carefully chosen,
perfectly shaped,
a miracle made of glass and patience.
But no one tells a child
that a mirror can become a
wound,
that every reflection holds a
memory.

That one eye will always remember
what the other tries to forget.
You were cold that night,
too cold for a world that still calls
itself civilized.
Your hand burned,
your breath shook,
and you held onto me
like I was gravity
You told me not to cry,
as if bravery is something children inherit
before language.

Now you are far away.
Italy has your mornings.
I have your empty space.
I count time by small things,
the jokes you would laugh at,
the way you used to say my name
when you were scared.
I wish I could tell you
that I’m right outside the door,
that if you call, I’ll come,
that distance is just a game
adults invented.
But all I can say is this, Aboud:
If one day the mirror hurts,
if it brings back smoke and sirens,
remember
You are still here.
Still small.
Still loved.
Still holding my hand,

Even from far away.
Maybe in another life,
none of this would exist.
But in this one,
you do,
and I miss you.