Sitti’s food is delicious, but her hands pay the price. My father complains that he suffers too. “Mama, stop cooking,” he whines. “I don’t have time to drive you to the hospital.”
Sitti laughs. “I have my hospital right here,” she says, shaking the box of band-aids she keeps by the stove.
The rest of Sitti’s Scars, a flash fiction piece, is available at the Baltimore Review. I’m thrilled to be included among some incredible writers.
[Image description: a Palestinian woman in red hijab plants an olive tree.]