schcherazades

grief will make you do crazy things. it will electrify the elegant, flower-stem neurons in the amygdala of your brain, will pluck them like an instrument. in ancient rome, grief made men twirl in their thin, leather sandals and pirouette until their feet bled; in india, it walked widows onto pyres waiting for fire. the persians gave the bodies of their deceased beloveds to dogs; the egyptians buried them with their servants. grief will make you laugh at the funeral, weep over the cereal bowl; it will buzz your feet until they start dancing in the middle of the night. it’s grief that inspires the unlikeliest of bedfellows. it will convince you, tugging at the hem of your ragged cotton robe — the one you’ve had since your father bought it for you in latakia when you were fifteen, the one that will always smell hazily of summer — that the building is on fire, the world is on fire, and you’ll only find water in one place: a city as far away from here as you can imagine. grief will pack your bag, quit your job, buy a white dress. it will make you say yes.

the arsonists’ city, hala alyan