By Michelle Chihara
He will visit Egypt without me, carrying only a scrap of paper in his pocket, a scrap where I have written the words, “Remember, Plumbing!”
He will wave goodbye at the conveyor belt to the X-Ray machine and then step into a world full of sand and eagle-headed gods. He will be transported to a time of blue lotuses, he’ll drink wine touched with their heady perfume. He’ll sit by a pond with lily-pads and tufts of papyrus, served in the shade of palm and pomegranate trees. Ruby red pomegranate seeds will glint and reflect the slices of sun under a loggia, deep in the inner courtyard of a fine house. He’ll sit and see all this while he waits for the unction room to be free.
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