Laura Maylene Walter
Fiction by Yasmine Rukia
I count the potted plants on the terrace; a vine of white jasmine, a bush of lavender, a yellow tulip bulb and three little cactuses. I’m no gardener—no mother earth but I like to think I’ll suddenly turn optimistic and rosy cheeked if I can live life through things that turn toward the light of the egg-yolk sun. It’s four am and my cigar is a smokestack, I am the smog overlooking Altar Road. I imagine free-falling from the holies of holy to amuse myself; what would The Mother of the Savior Lutheran, the dome-topped Armenian, its sister Orthodox, and the two watchful minarets of the mosque that act as absent Baba, the Right, always right, and Mama the Left, think of this scene?