It’s like that arcade game in which you stand with a hammer in front of a field of holes and you have to bang the little moles or mice or whatever rodent pops up. Except you don’t know where it’s going to come from and as soon as you hit one down, another one jumps out. I’ve thrown a huge black blanket over my mind and I’m holding it down, on my fours, trying to keep it from slipping off and exposing the truth: I miss home; I don’t know what I’m doing, was it the right decision?
Of course there is no one moment at which the decision stands right or wrong and it will play out gradually and it depends on how I see it and how I deal with it. Right now, it’s play-doh in its little cute plastic box.
Making furniture, buying hooks to hang blue clocks on, trudging up a creaky staircase with bags from Walmart and Target and then spending the lonely hours in the night putting up photographs of all the people who aren’t with me.
It’s interesting to manage my religion in a place indifferent to it. I wake up for sehri, a struggle every early morning and I heat leftovers with a wary eye on the only company in those wee hours: a creepy-crawly that looks like a cross between a centipede and a spider.Being positive can be difficult but it is essential.