by Shurouq Ibrahim
My grandmother named her Kawkab. When her dentist asks how this is pronounced, I firmly enunciate: Cow Cab. My mother would not approve of me diluting her name in this way, Or maybe she would not care at all.
My grandmother named her Kawkab. A literal translation of planet. She named her to place her among the stars where no man would dim her light. She thought that God would guard her there.
But my grandmother got distracted. An 18-year-old could now fend for herself. She forgot that God was watching and gave Kawkab away. He would know right from wrong; he would fix that crooked halo.
Soon that cosmic light was replaced with a mechanic glow, one that beamed on and off like a sleeping desktop; one that had not been touched in a minute.
Kawkab ironed and cooked and swept and washed windows. In a quarry town, in our own backyard, she picked dusty olives from nine dusty olive trees, all in a day. Her eyes would swell soon after; she insisted it was the works of accumulated dirt and allergies.
When I was old enough, I managed to turn the bulb a little and restore some of Kawkab’s flickers. I brought her to America. I wanted to remind her of her dwelling in the sky.
Kawkab is still sweeping and fitting beds in a country where it is common to abuse her name, but as my mother always told me as a child, the hands of a foreigner are forgiven more easily than those which made our bodies their homes.
