I Translated for You: a page from Small Box in the Heart by Ibtihal Salem--recommended👍

Times have voices…they share your night, your silence, and your longing…they infiltrate you…they encompass you. 

Why are you singing, Maryam…why don’t you speak…why are you wandering the streets, running away from your time as it is closing in on you…why is your bleeding soul wondering: are you a bad woman or is it just a bad time… or are you  betting on a losing horse for the thousandth time?  

Alone, you walk with heavy steps as the hours bombard your head…alone with the muddy sidewalks… the shops…the laundry lines… and the dark windows.  You pass between the fruit juice shop and the grocery store to reach an old house in front of a coffee shop. You throw yourself onto the first chair you find… kick off your shoes, toss them away, and put your feet on the edge of the table.

Your mother has always prided herself on her folktale proverbs.  She ardently asserted that, by gosh, they tell the truth!  You used to race with your siblings to stand closer around her. When she got sick of the constant bickering and the chaos you all created, she took off her beaded slipper and chased you all around the house.

She told you her last proverb when her hair was turning gray and diabetes was robbing the sight from her beautiful eyes.  She said to you: “my daughter, hold tight to what I am going to tell you.  Life is give and take.  Those who give today will take tomorrow.”

Oh Maryam, you gambled your days away.  You have nowhere to go but this house—grandma’s house.  You get up and wander barefoot among the old furniture whose shadows follow you wherever you move. You stand and look at your grandma’s fading picture…you stare at her eyes…you see a ray coming out of them…you follow it to the bedroom.  In the corner…there stands your grandma’s box… lonely and silent.