Strings - Capstone Amal Al Shamsi (1)

Black Sheep
When his father still lived in his house and even after he left, Jasem compiled a nice
assortment of things from other stores and other people’s houses. He was proud of the things he
gathered, because they were all quality finds. It hadn’t always been that way, the security guards
at the malls could provide a testament to that.
Hamza had mistaken his son’s interest in divinity for admiration. Haya wasn’t too keen
on it, even though she pretended when they were at her grandmother’s house. But the boy’s eyes
would light up. Hamza thought, for a moment, that he felt the same spark as they watched
Dalida dust her grandson’s palms in baby powder and then parse through the lines. They both
were in awe with the way she did not flinch when the gardener called to tell her that pipes burst
in the farm and revived the trees. She already knew. The hair left behind on her pillow case told
her she should expect good news.
Hamza had been mistaken. The boy would grow up with sticky fingers. He could not see
something good and leave it at that. He had to make it his own. So, he started consulting his
grandmother and got her caught up with his petty affairs. She could tell him where to go, what to
take, and how to take it. She was getting old then, she had been getting old for some time.
Unbeknownst to her, her gift was being tarnished by Jasem.
When he was caught sometime later, Hamza was forced to make some arrangements.
News reached to his mother. She was not a fool, she could tell she was wrapped up in it.
She was struck. Perhaps it was the shame, or the feeling of being taken for a fool. Even with
Hamza, she didn’t speak for some months. Dying her hands with black henna up until her
elbow. It was like she had gone.
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