Mervat Al-Khazaei (Prepared Angela Kosta)
Moderator 
Mervat Al-Khazaei
SOUL SHIFT
Despite the many faces she had grown used to seeing in the hospital, he remained the most vivid in her memory.
When he walked in that morning, the white of his shirt had been stained a deep crimson-blood streaming from his head.
She watched the glint of his hair under the lights, and drifted into an endless journey through his blue eyes.
She gave him special care, following the doctor’s orders, and showered him with kindness and tenderness, until she became the envy of her colleagues.
He began to wait for her shift as a musician awaits the first note of a sonata; he seemed like a pianist-or a clarinetist-counting down the seconds.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted the bandages from his eyes; on her dark-chocolate skin, a sheen of sweat glistened.
The room could barely contain the light that flooded her soul.
He stood by the window, holding her hand.
When he walked in that morning, the white of his shirt had been stained a deep crimson-blood streaming from his head.
She watched the glint of his hair under the lights, and drifted into an endless journey through his blue eyes.
She gave him special care, following the doctor’s orders, and showered him with kindness and tenderness, until she became the envy of her colleagues.
He began to wait for her shift as a musician awaits the first note of a sonata; he seemed like a pianist-or a clarinetist-counting down the seconds.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted the bandages from his eyes; on her dark-chocolate skin, a sheen of sweat glistened.
The room could barely contain the light that flooded her soul.
He stood by the window, holding her hand.
A smile leapt to her lips:
“How do I look?”
“Your heart,” he said, “is still beautiful.”
“How do I look?”
“Your heart,” he said, “is still beautiful.”
Translated by Sahar Al-Yaqoub
Prepared Angela Kosta
