Nobody expected we would be here. I spent many nights teaching my son how to talk, I never liked it when parents let their children speak wrong. So I made sure my son would pronounce every word properly, write properly. He finished reading his first non-school book at the age eight, it was a poetry book by Nazar al-Qabni. I was impressed with how he caught the metaphors and stored them in his pocket to sprinkle them later on the flower he gave his teacher.
I crafted him a letter to read each day, one filled with hard words for him to try and learn new words. I was hoping that one day I would see him reading Dostoevsky's books, maybe some Orwell.
I grew up with a stutter created by fear and shock caused by my father. I had a father who was a dear friend with Jack Daniels and a lover of Estrella. He hated that he couldn't read, and he hated that I did. I stole books I couldn't afford, hoping some author would explain to me how the scars on my and my mother's face and body could heal. They never did, so I returned them. When I was caught once and was forced to chase after my father home, begging him to return my clothes after he had me strip in the middle of the street as a punishment, I promised myself then that when I have my own son. He would read without fear, he would live without abuse.
I protected my son from the ugly world, he was kept safe from my PTSD. My son became a language master at a young age, he had his command over the Arabic language. I didn't realize it until too late that there was one thing I forgot to teach him.
When the tanks blew up our house and I managed to get him out safe. As a soul, I ran outside the crumbled rocks in a hurry to make sure he is alright. I hoped to to find a way keep the burned out scar on his face with me before he ran for help, so I ran after him until he was stopped by people wondering what happened.
"Ma-ma-my father" He stuttered "The hou-house crashed because people threw flames at us from those big cars"
That's when I learned that I had forgotten to teach him about war.
Now he spends his days alone, with nothing but words he reads but never uses. Silent, if not, the stutter kills his motivation to speak. And I roam the streets, humiliated and walking around naked after my clothes were burned. Hoping to find a way to craft him a letter, apologizing for teaching him all these words then abandoning him in feelings he can't express.
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