This is a small excerpt from a piece of short prose fiction (non-linear) I wrote a few years ago. It is set in a Palestinian refugee camp during one of the darkest years of the Lebanese Civil War. I would like to go back and rework it - perhaps extend it into a novel one day.
To my brother Jamil Suleiman, 23-08-1982.
Our mother weeps into the clothes she mends
The dough she folds
The mint she washes
The letters you send
She is lost without