Love, Mom

The old lady rubbed her hands together, and called for her son.  She grabbed his arm, and scrawled her name and phone number on it. Then she handed him a bundle with a thin blanket and pillow, a thermos of tea and some gebna roumy sandwiches. With a kiss he was gone, off to wave his flag and offer  his body to the Midan.

Waking to the sound of the Egyptian flag snapping in the wind like a whip.  His aching limbs were chilled by the January cold. He tossed the blanket and lurched to his feet, head spinning

Minutes later a stranger offered a sip of water and a hand up, sheltering him from the bitter wind. The gaping wound on his head bound by a passing stranger’s head scarf.  His blood stained the black and white scarf a flaming red.

Artwork Courtesy of Reda Khalil