You are like a daughter to me—the prisoner’s mother tells me. Meal by meal she sets then clears. She rinses some tablewear the prisoner never held, then a glass she did, then recalls her daughter’s mouth opening softly to drink water on state- run TV, then water over everything. The glass appears in hundreds of frames before reaching the prisoner’s lips. In between each frame, the grief our eyes jump to create movement: dark strips to keep sharp the glass lip, water skin trembling, hand that trembles it. These mothers move as flipbooks, tiny, stuttering pasts, sobbing at the sink. It is death that sharpens our sight each sixteenth second, slender, blocking enough light so that the prisoner’s face is again and again alive each light-punctured frame, her mouth: in hundreds of stills is still opening softly to drink. Copyright © 2016 Solmaz Sharif. Used with permission of the author. |
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