Watching prayers Stories

I watch them bow again, on their knees, facing Mecca. Bony cheeks. Ribs. Their bare feet, calloused. I face Mecca, too, but the glare of the sun, or the heat, or the water, or the dirty pier does not let me see in that direction. And so I turn and watch them pray, like their fathers, mumbling to themselves as if centuries hadn’t passed while in my mind the ship’s horn screams at noon.