Everything becomes normal. One day we had sex and now I’m sitting next to the window and can hear the familiar sound of my keys being thrown to the floor behind the sofa. Somehow a creature grew in me that can speak and dance and finds it funny to see my things smack the floorboards. Yet we don’t wake up surprised.
We wake up normal. Where we live now is quiet and still, with old sash windows overlooking every shade of green. We have lived in nine homes in the eight years we’ve been together, and sometimes it feels like this stillness is all there has ever been, and sometimes we remember the old places, innocently, playing ‘what’s your favourite’ on a rare dinner date, and the past rises up and crashes over us like a wave, and I fall silent, and realise we have become Adults, because Adults have things they Don’t Talk About because the hurt of remembering inhibits everyday living. I realise that these places are hidden in your body: behind a rib, your abandoned childhood home; nestled in your stomach, the flat where we fell in love, where you’d stay up late sharing stories and smokes with the guys at Khaled’s flat on the top floor. And now Khaled is gone and shells have blown through the real walls of these places and you have to keep them hidden small in your body because if you turned to face them they would balloon to their actual size and block out your breath.
So we wake up normal. You speak English now, and we go for picnics with my family, and we have a baby daughter who spends Sunday mornings emptying the contents of my bag onto the living room floor.
I used to have a colleague from Bosnia who had not been back since he left in the 1990s, and seemed to have cut the country out of his inner map, answering questions about contemporary Bosnian life with a simple “I don’t know”. I hope this is not what Syria becomes for us, but I don’t judge him for doing this like I did before.