panda

Fifteen years ago, his father died. He killed himself with a gun he had once bought for self-defense, not to kill himself. The bullet pierced his heart, taking him from a life that had astonished him with all its wonder, and which had astonished him with its unexpected surprises—surprises that surprised everyone except his brother, Suad. The world was astonishing, then, because he laughed so much at breaking an egg in his food, and he laughed so much whenever he broke an egg in his food, or whenever he saw his sister Suad breaking a drain, and he shared these laughs with her without knowing for a moment what made him laugh in this place. And through that second window, he could see the building that contained his apartment, where he lived with his family: Rehab, his son Imran, Jaida, and his sister Suad. He killed himself on a stormy winter night, and the electrical wires added to its gloom and turmoil. If what we were doing indicated that something would happen that night, the sky was shattering like glass—yes, a small volcano in Chicago, enjoying a partial, sudden accident in the car. The awnings that covered the building's roofs shattered, and the torrential water, along with the cracked remnants of old water on the exterior of some of the abandoned structures, prevented this paint from reaching the depressions and corners, which began as pools upon which floated bags, papers, and cans of damaged and sulfurous materials. The construction halted, leaving the building to its former glory. A brutal night.