muhammad's aunt

She greets us at the door of her tiny apartment, all blue housedress and bulging belly and wisps of wild hair defiantly struggling to escape the clutches of her hairpins. She ushers us into her bedroom—the only space available for sitting and sipping tea—and motions for me to take my place on the edge of her bed. I ease onto the hard mattress encircled by peach walls and hot pink curtains and small tables cluttered with plastic combs and photos and jars of cream and hair gel. She brings tea with milk and dry biscuits and makes small talk about conspiracies, an earthquake in Turkey, her broken air conditioner. Her coarse voice mingles with that of a beautiful Egyptian soap star lost in soliloquy on the T.V. screen in the corner. At once apologetic and nostalgic and proud, she thrusts tiny photos into my hands of her as a young woman. A past life . . . slim and beautiful with wide eyes and creamy skin and flowing locks of black hair that framed her face and draped over her shoulders.