Strings - Capstone Amal Al Shamsi (1)

Strings
In two instances, Hamza remembered himself through his mother’s eyes. When Hamza
was born, the first words he must have heard were: “where is the string?”
His aunt tried to whisper prayers into his ear but his mother kept interrupting. “Where is
the string?”
“Ssh.”
“I didn’t see it.”
The nurse peeled off her gloves and almost instantly slid into new ones. “She’ll need
some water and rest.”
“Where are you going?” His mother asked.
The nurse moved to check the squeaky metal cot and the baby inside. His aunt stood next
to her, moving her sheila over her mouth.
“Tell me what they’re saying,” Dalida asked her sister.
His aunt kept her head hanging over the cot, making thoughtful faces. “One moment, I’m
trying to do something here.”
The nurse tapped her clipboard on the metal and left the room. The door made no sound
behind her.
Dalida wanted to move her toes. Dull pain swirled around her chest, it felt like it was
trying to push lower but could not. Her body must have split in half, oh what if it did? They
would stitch her together. Maybe they could give her a better pair of legs.
In her mind, she was bending over and scratching them beneath the starchy covers. The
air conditioning was hitting her chest but it felt so far away, so she wasn’t sure how to do
anything about it. If they closed the A/C, it would be so hot.
Then she remembered her son’s stomach and got scared again. “I didn’t see the string.
Where did it go?”
Her sister was laughing. Dalida looked up and saw her sitting at the side of the bed. “You
are incredible,” she told Hamza’s mother. “But what are you saying?”
“Was my boy born without a string?”
A sweaty palm moved to her even more sweaty cheek. “Was it that easy? It didn’t look
easy.” Her sister wiped her hands on her lap. “Maybe I should give birth here, too, if the doctor
is that good.”
“Bring it to me, I want to see it,” his mother pleaded.
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