Three shrivelled lemons and a plastic bag of pita bread that’s more dry than mouldy sit next to one another.

That’s all this supermarket has to offer.

I stare with tired eyes before picking them up, my bones aching with every movement. I stroll around the dusty, empty aisles once more, hoping maybe I missed something.

But all I’m met with is a strong sense of nostalgia. The days when my brother and I would rush into this supermarket after school and fill our arms with bags of crisps and gummy bears. This makes me think of Mama and the way she would shake her head, smiling at her red-faced, starry-eyed children trying their best to hide the spoils of war in their backpacks. She’d brush our hair— I shake my head.

Stop.

When the aisles prove to be truly empty, I trudge to the counter to pay for the lemons and bread with Baba’s savings.

From whatever he was able to withdraw before that fateful day. The owner, a bald old man in his sixties, gives me a sympathetic smile before returning my change.

Outside the supermarket, a desolate ate picture greets me. I don’t recoil, used to the horror, but it amplifies the anguish in my heart…

Continue reading the extract here…

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