I HEARD HIS VOICE BY ATASH YAGHMAIAN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 70
Marco took some white rocks out of the bag and put them into a glass pipe.
“Is that crack?” I asked.
“Don’t call it that,” he said. “That’s what people in the ghetto call it. We call it smoking coke.”
He took a big hit and leaned back on the couch with a satisfied look on his face. As his body melted into the couch, something strange happened to me.
I heard the Muslim call to prayer, but we were somewhere in the Lower East Side of New York City and there were no minarets. I strained my ears to listen. Children’s voices seemed to be coming from outside the window, though we were on the fourth floor. I let the sounds wash over me.
Then the deep, soft voice of my Uncle Hossain filled my ears: “Azizam, movazeb baash kasi nayad too. My love, don’t let anyone in.”
