Walking out of the apartment with my hand clasped between the long fingers of my mother, I observe the withering trees that droop down from the weight of fall sneaking up on it. Its dry leaves sway from side to side as the wind pushes them around, until finally the stem can’t hold it any longer…a crinkle…a snap…and a quiet loud as it crashes to the waiting pavement. A fresh blow of air presses on the insulation of my vest, bringing with it the sound of a phone ringing and a sense of cold. It whispers in my ear, telling me that this vest is not enough to keep me warm. A cold sweat forms on the back of my neck. The wind howling around us is eerie as my mommy reaches into her patent leather bag and pulls out a Motorola phone alight with the caller ID on the front. Her eyebrows crinkle at the center.

“Mommy? Mooommmyy? Can I play a game?”
I long for the clicks of buttons that make the little guy jump above the blocks and through the rings of fire. I could play it for hours.

She ignores my request and flips open the phone.

The wind is blowing through again, bringing me a sense of anxiety. I really want to play that game. Here we are standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Waiting. Just waiting.

“Hello? Alaa? What happened?” She speaks in the slightly unfamiliar form of communication named Arabic. Into the holes in the plastic phone, the words go through to the other side where my dad is a mirror image. It is a lot like my walkie talkie…maybe I can get my walkie talkie from upstairs…

“Moooommmmmmyyyyyyy. Mommy, can we go upstairs?”

“Shhh. Yassmin.” I am silenced by the soothing sound of the air being blown out from her pursed lips. It is her way of telling me she is busy. The wind keeps pushing at me, when suddenly the air shifts and I am no longer looking up and my mother, but down. She is on the ground, screaming.

“DEAD. NO. HE CAN’T BE. WHY GOD? WHY?” The sharp shrills of her scream bring attention from those around us. Why is she screaming? It is hurting my ears. Why is she on the floor? There are bugs down there. It’s a horrid place to sit. Who is dead?

“Mommy get up. Mommy it’s cold, I want to go back upstairs. Why aren’t you listening to me?”

Suddenly she is standing up and running back to the apartment building. I guess she was listening to me. I follow her into the corridor where she presses the button for the elevator. I usually get to press the button. Amanda at school told me the other day that she doesn’t get to press the button for the elevator; her mommy always lets her little brother do it. I felt bad for her, but now I feel bad for myself. We rush into the small cubicle that takes us up three floors.

I hope my sister isn’t the one who is dead. She did leave earlier with dad…and dad is the one who called my mom. Oh.oh.oh.oh God no. It all fits! She is dead!

Tears flow freely down my round, small face. Oh. Oh. Oh. Who will I play my games with now?

“Mommy? Is it Sara? Is she the one you said is dead?” My only source of comfort ignores me and rushes into the apartment. She immediately heads to the closet and sticks her head in as she finds items of black and throws them out. Her face looks like mine.

Then she is on the ground crying again. Her arms are wrapped around her legs, she presses her head between her knees.

“MOMMY! IS IT SARA?”

The air in the room seemed to get hotter. The black clothing is strewn over the floor.

“NO! NO! NO!” Sobs rack her body as she repeats the word. “NO, NO, NO,” I do not know if she is answering my question or simply in denial. I do know that I have never seen her like this.

Why else would she be so upset? Who else could it be? Well it can’t be daddy since she called him on the phone. Ugh I need a nap, this is getting exhausting.

“Yassmin,” she whispers my name, pronouncing each syllable, “Yassmin, why are you crying? Yassmin don’t cry.”

“Mommy, who died?”

“My uncle, you didn’t know him, but… I …loved….him,” More tears flow down her face.

Uncle…she has an uncle?

“Should I put on black clothing too?”

“No. No. You are too young for these types of things,” her eyes are swollen from the seemingly hour of crying that was only really ten minutes at most. I reach in to give her a hug and we stay in that same position until my dad comes home, me seeking comfort from a scare, and her seeking comfort from a loss.