Muslim Street

Last night I found myself revisiting something that has always been so indistinct in my mind, those few bits and pieces of my childhood.

Growing up—I had always envied Abid because he still remembered Siddo and the long unpaved “driveway” in front of the house. He remembered his friends and the shenanigans that they'd get into, he remembered their names and his bike and even Mama’s old washing machine. And yet I only remembered leaving, something I couldn’t help but feeling guilty about