ST NICHOLAS REFUSES HIS MOTHER’S MILK ON FASTING DAYS
Aysar Ghassan
A boy in a tiny gingham collar, caramel gelled furrows parting his straw-coloured hair, gives me the finger through the bottom half of the front passenger window of his mother’s smart German saloon.
Boys, dots on playing fields, too close to the woods, running from older boys with more developed quadriceps, hoping to make it home before getting their heads kicked in. Each, the apple of mother’s eye, a gemstone pocketed on the exodus from Eden, kissed on both cheeks by aunts jostling for position.
