In My Dreams, My Brother Was Married
In my dreams,
my brother wore a smile
so full, so strange—
not the quiet, tired one he wears by day,
but something lit from within.
He was not alone.
At his side,
a woman—
her voice was wind from the mountains,
her eyes knew stories older than maps.
She was either Armenian
or Kurdish.
Maybe both.
Maybe it didn’t matter.
She called him by a name
only love invents.
And he answered
like a man who had never been wounded.
Like a man who belonged somewhere
without needing to conquer it.
Our mother cooked for them.
Our father laughed too loud.
There was no history
in the air—
just tea steam
and bread breaking
and the weightlessness
of what could have been.
In my dreams,
my brother was whole.
And the world,
for once,
did not argue
with our blood.