“Unraveling Secrets: What Lies Beneath in Youssef Biaz’s ‘Atlas Fledgling’?”
That night, I awoke hours before sunrise. The sound of metal and dirt drew me to the window, where I watched Baba dig a new grave in the backyard. He placed a tissue box in the soil and covered it. When he closed his eyes, I closed mine. We prayed, but I didn’t know any surahs to recite. Instead, I found myself mouthing curses – first at Baba for letting me take Pika home, then at God for everything else. Twenty-five years later, Baba is all smiles, elbowing me in the ribs as he wonders if grandchildren could be on the way. He doesn’t know that cribs are made of cardboard, and a child’s grasping fingers are hooked claws, scratching sorrow into a father’s heart.
