The Interpreter
"She interprets for Somali refugees at the hospital—a thick widow who bridges the gap between worlds. When she helps his grandmother during an emergency, he becomes her most dedicated thank-you. Some translations require no words."
Idil speaks three languages fluently.
Somali, Arabic, English. She works as a medical interpreter at Hennepin Healthcare, helping refugees navigate the terrifying world of American medicine.
She saved my grandmother's life.
A stroke. Confusion. A Somali woman who spoke no English suddenly surrounded by doctors who spoke no Somali. Idil was there, translating panic into calm, fear into treatment.
I found her after.
"Mahadsnid," I said. "You saved her."
"I just interpreted." But she was crying. "It's what I do."
She's fifty years old.
A widow—her husband died of cancer two years ago. She started interpreting to fill the hours, to feel useful, to keep moving.
She's thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of compassion. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. Eyes that have seen too much suffering.
I take her for coffee.
Then dinner.
Then—
"You don't have to do this," she says. We're in her apartment, three months after we met. "I'm old. Fat. Grieving."
"I want to do this."
"Wallahi?"
"You help everyone else. Let me help you."
She closes her eyes.
"I haven't been touched since before my husband got sick. Three years. Maybe more."
"Then it's time."
I worship the interpreter.
My mouth traces her body—every inch that's been sacrificing for others.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel. "So long—"
I taste her.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Three years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Translating desire into action.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
"Alla—so big—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I make love to the interpreter.
The woman who saved my grandmother.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me.
I pound her.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—"
I let go.
I flood Idil.
Fill her where three years of grief lived.
We lie tangled together.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best thank-you I've ever received."
"This isn't payment. It's beginning."
"Beginning?"
"I'll be here. Every day you need me." I kiss her. "You translate for others. Let me translate for you."
"What will you translate?"
"This. Love. Need. Everything."
She cries.
Then she kisses me.
One Year Later
My grandmother recovered.
Idil still interprets at the hospital.
And every night, she comes home to me.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My translation."
Some languages need no words.
Ours is one of them.