Clear, Heavy Plastic Bags

T’was a night filled with clamorous yells of authenticity and delight,
For father came home, each hand with a clear, heavy plastic bag.
A bag so visible; inside held the family’s favorite, savory dinner.
One bag held sliced fruits, the other, chicken oil dripped.
Father placed the bags on the table, and said Bismillah, before we ate.

The plastic bags held no significance after dinner– off it went to the bin.
October is cold, so father gave us mittens to wear, and hugged us before we slept.
His snores were noisy– deafening even, as he slept by his side, holding me.
I remembered dinner, and how I wish to see father coming home with those plastic bags again.

It was ironic, somehow, that the filthy plastic bags thrown in the bin were held again by father.
October was a lot colder tonight, and the hug father gave was stiff, almost suffocating.
His cries were vivid– loud even, as he ran to the busy street, holding the filthy plastic bags.
I remembered dinner, and saw father going out with the same pair of plastic bags we threw.

T’was a night filled with yells differing from authenticity and delight,
For father came outside, each hand with a clear, heavy plastic bag.
A bag so visible; inside held the family’s favorite: my brother, and I.
One bag held sliced appendages of mine, the other, it wasn’t oil that dripped– my brother’s, maybe.
Father raised the bags, “My children!” he yelled, before he knelt down to cry.

Father came home with the same plastic bags he carried that night of supper,
And it may have been that those plastic bags were significant for father and I, even after dinner.
The month of October may have been cold in the areas of Palestine, but all I felt was warmth,
For father held us tight– in the same pair of those clear, heavy plastic bags.