The writer with his beloved teta and baby brother. Photo: Ahmed Freihat

my teta is gone, and everything is worse now
the windows in her house hold the fading memories
everywhere in it; a place of worries
everything in it; a ground of tears in which I sow
there is no more rhyme or art which
even the cracking paint on the wall has forgotten
the neighborhood dogs do not bark anymore, but howl instead
I stop. the rhymes have stopped, and the tears are returning
there is no way to hold back the tide this time

on desolate summer mornings, my teta would get up early,
put her clothes on in the crippling heat,
then with cracked hands that ached
from a long life lived for others
turn on the fan to combat the heat
and shape dough into manakish. nobody ever thanked her.
the warm scent would flirt with my nostrils and I would wake and hear the tinkle of the glass teacups
when the tea was ready, she’d call,
and slowly I would get up and walk over,
fearing the unrelenting bustle of that house,
hoping it was only her and I this time,
and I dared to speak indifferently to her,
to my teta, who had driven out the heat
and noticed the little scar on my left cheek
not taking in the true significance of the moment
not realizing that would be the last of those summer mornings that I could ever remember

what did I know, what did I know
of the complexity of love and generational divides?
she is not here to notice the little scar on my left cheek anymore
and I meet her only in my dreams now
where I still sense the warm scent of a summer morning’s tea and manakish
but, when I start to wake and reach out this time
my questioning hand finds nothing now
so I say it into the heat she is no longer here to drive away: thank you.