By Omar Ghanem
We had stood in front of grandmother’s bed that day, my sister Alice and I. Our parents had pushed us into the room and locked the door. The door had a lock on the outside, not on the inside.
The old witch lay on the bed, swaddled among a multitude of blankets, her beady eyes watching us.
She wanted to give us gifts, she said in a fevered, diseased voice. To my sister Alice, she handed a nail, the nail of her index finger. To me, nothing, but she promised a future gift.
I am still waiting, even after twenty years.
Those 20 years – gift of life??