Hibiscus water, guava milk & mango juice

I am hibiscus water, guava milk and mango juice.  I am in green cotton, light and wrinkled, unzipped on the side the air tickles my skin, my legs dangle freely pantsless, and I feel sexy in a daisy way dancing to the Sufi drums on my ipod, my feet beating the sand rhythm into the faded red of my living room carpet.  Abre y cierra, abre y cierra.  Last night I wore my hair down for the first time in Egypt and as I walked home somewhere past midnight from “fool and falafal” and Brazilian Café chocolate cake, I looked up at the moon I knew was full, for I’d seen it just hours before, and saw a piece of it was missing!  I’ve seen eclipses before, when the news and my astronomy Dad warn me they’re coming, but I’ve never stumbled upon one like this.  It felt strange and special, like a secret.  I have spent the morning in and out of open-window-breezes and thoughts.  What do you do when a friend whose life is so different from yours, who has always believed in the Book and the Word of God and the Prophet, asks you for advice on love?  What do you do when, standing beside the sullen hungry camel and the hippo you swear is dead but nobody seems to notice at the sad grey place of rusted bars and sickness they call a zoo, what do you do when she asks you what sex is?  What do you do with the feeling at the bottom of your stomach that says this is the first time – and perhaps the only time – in 24 years she has had someone to ask this question of questions to?  What do you say when your words may be the only ones she has to piece together a great mystery that for you should be sprawling mosaic of colors and dreams and things you’ve heard or seen or wondered so many different times and places, but for her may be nothing more than a couple of words scrawled in ketchup on a napkin, passed under the table so no one will see?  What words do you write?  How do you tell her what they mean?  What do you tell her about the blood she has been told forever is the sole indication of purity and virginity?  How do you tell her it’s different for everyone?  That is sometimes isn’t there, but that it doesn’t mean you’re dirty, that only you can know these things about yourself?  What do you do with the terror in her black-eyeliner eyes?  Does it make it any better if you tell her it’s ok to be afraid?  What do you say when, caught in a fit of shrieks and sobs, she asks you like a sister if it’s a good idea to run away from a mother who is trying to marry her to a man she doesn’t love?  Do you tell her yes, it’s  best to enter into a polygamous marriage with a married man who lives in America but who she says she loves?  How do you tell her that in your head you can’t even conceive of being a second wife?  And last, what do you do when you think you shouldn’t share these questions but you feel too small to keep them all inside yourself?