My mother.
born in the lands of rising apple trees and aromas of kunafa and mana2ish.
The streets deeply engulfed by the scent of fresh bread and lahmajun
the old church singing in the background of her childhood in lebanon
blooming in the streets of bourj hammoud like cherry blossoms all adorned across roads.
A place where she found parts of herself scattered and gathered at the same time.
i remember visiting the place she grew up in i was still so young but i can recall the fragrances of wet grass and gardens full of flowers.
playing on the swing under the shade of vivacious grapevines,
and long walks through the apple orchards.
Most particularly,
I remember how her father would put his transistor radio up to his ear to listen to the news with the volume at its highest setting. Because he was hard of hearing,
My mother who returned to syria in her sheer youth.
special in her style and expression.
My mother who embodied grace and persistence always showed us how to do things right.
i wonder
does she know how I’m feeling by my frowns or has my pain never caught her eyes
does she worry about us at all does she think if im tired
or if my sleep and eating was okay?
how I’m handling this cruel world on my shoulders since i was 10 in my own
I wonder does she miss me like i miss her
i miss mama