Editor's note: On Sunday, September 17, my father's sister died very suddenly. She lived just 10 minutes from our home in Beirut, and we were all extremely close to her. This is my tribute to her. In Arabic, "ahlam" means dreams)

With heavy heads and rage, we wake up Sunday morning to the voice of my father. Enthusiastic to have his eldest sister, my Aunt Ahlam, around, he rushes us to prepare breakfast. As teens, family was not a priority, and neither were early breakfasts. We’d sit briefly with her, have a small chitchat, excuse ourselves and go back to the cocoon we call our room.

Today, my sweet Aunt Ahlam, you excused yourself from this world. Today, my sweet aunt Ahlam, you said goodbye for the last time, or are we the ones saying goodbye? Are we the ones eaten up by the pangs of sorrow or is it you? We try to act strong but what’s the use? Flashes of memories splatter in front of me in my solitude, and I weep and weep and weep, but do you hear, aunt Ahlam? Do my feelings of regret reach your pure soul?

As I look at a recent photo of us, perhaps the only photo that exists, your kind eyes look at me, I believe they do, and I remember why this photo was taken. I wanted to freeze a memory, then, with my beloved aunt. I did not want to grow up one more day saying that, in this technological storm, I cannot remember the face of my aunt. Your kind eyes look at me, I believe they do.

I weep and I weep and I weep, but your clock is no longer ticking. Are you coming for another early Sunday breakfast? I promise I’ll be a better host. I promise I’ll smile sincerely and ask you how you’ve been. I promise to kiss your hand and your forehead, but please, Aunt Ahlam, I have prepared breakfast for you.

But not this morning; now we all say, “Sweet dreams, my sweet Aunt Ahlam.”