Yellow Means Pending

The city sweats through its good shirt. 
The local café has been closed for a quarter of an hour, 
but hands me an iced matcha through the window anyway —
a small cooling grace.

An older woman says Mashallah to me on the street
like she's tipping a hat. 
Wsallam. 

The cats in my neighborhood are many, 
but lack the friendliness of Istanbul's — 
they are small landlords on the curb, 
ruling the world with their eyes, 
collecting no rent, 
but gladly accepting tuna.

Meanwhile, my husband and I discuss a trip in January.

I already have a mental spreadsheet open: 
Pakistan: logistics. 

The visa column is yellow. 
Yellow means pending. 
Yellow means we don't know yet.

Security is red. 
At least from Islamabad to my husband's hometown, 
which borders Afghanistan.  

But I already know what awaits me there: 
hospitality I need to train for. 

Not courtesy —
obligation, spiritual, ancestral,
and I am the daughter-in-law arriving from abroad...

But I will be prepared.  

The trick is 
to leave a small amount of food on my plate, a cup of chai always in hand —
social shields against the next helping.

I also need to learn a few more greetings in Pashto...
Apart from searching for something with potato eyes,
I know Manana and Nosh de sha —
but will need more than that when the spotlight is on me.

I will gladly manage,

Inshallah.