There’s always been a trickling feeling where shutters and fans twirl during warm nights and a younger version of ourselves watches the sweat trickle off bodies we admire and burn holes onto the warm surface our faces lie flat against. I think the spaces we occupy have been moulded into a state of static that the coincidences of our lives reject. But I can hear the bubbling of the pot over the meal of my youth, and I can see the image blur over the eyes watching over. Maybe the time it takes to cook is the time it takes to remember.

Email from Nada to Basma asking for the Maklouba recipe in French.
Basma's reply to Nada with the Maklouba recipe in French.
Postcard collage of a womans breast, kinky hair and the word return.
Final email Nada sent to Basma with a photo of the Maklouba.
Brass bowl