THE PEAR TREE

THE PEAR TREE

By H. Dabajeh

“Oh, nightingale, we bid you sing
Of youth, and truth and beauty,
As if to chant the praise of spring
Were you appointed duty;
Too soon the owl of death will come
With a sudden haunting cry;
Too soon we each must seek our home
In the cold earth to lie.”
–Saadi Shirazi

CHAPTER 1: PROLOGUE

For nearly a half-century, I have laid my head to rest beneath the very same roof that sheltered my father during his lifetime, in a bed situated directly above the worn-out chair where he often sat, lamenting the harsh realities of the material world and cursing the insatiable greed that seemed to infect its very fabric. He was the singular figure of comfort in my life, the one soul I felt truly connected to, towering above me like a steadfast oak. But now, that grounding presence is gone, leaving behind an uncanny bitterness and a profound sense of hopelessness that clings to me like a shadow. I find myself with nothing of tangible value; my possessions have dwindled to mere whispers of the past. However, I do carry within me the cherished memories he imparted—fragments of joy that dance in my heart and the echo of my children’s laughter that fills the silence left in his absence. On that fateful day when he departed, I came to a stark realization: not every journey in life circles back to a warm, welcoming home.

Rashid Dabajeh was no ordinary father. He was not the kind of man to embrace his children with open arms and luminous smiles. His demeanor was often stern, grounded deeply in his unwavering beliefs, which were forged from an ancient and proud medieval mindset. His serious nature rarely cracked, only softening under rare circumstances when a smile would break through the cloud of his seriousness, surprising us with the sound of robust laughter that erupted like a sudden storm. Engage him in a debate, and he would scorch you with a string of colorful, acerbic remarks. Attempt to reason with him, and you would be left adrift in a sea of bewildering thoughts, seeking clarity amidst the confusion.

On one memorable occasion, a woman preparing for a flight to Lebanon approached him, inquiring if he had any gifts to send back to his nephew. Without missing a beat, he replied, “Indeed, I have an old shoe from the garage with a loose sole. Tell him to tap a nail into it.” The exchange was met with a brief silence, reflecting both surprise and a muted understanding of his eccentric humor.

Another time, during a conversation, a woman proudly stated how she followed her doctor’s advice scrupulously. “I don’t eat any red meat, I drink no coffee, nor smoke any cigarettes,” she boasted, brimming with self-righteousness. Rashid, without a hint of hesitation, leaned in and interrupted her, declaring, “Did he also conclude you have a hollow brain?” His words were laced with a wit that could slice through pretentiousness with surgical precision.

He raised us in an atmosphere saturated with seriousness and an unyielding commitment to our faith. Through his deep and steadfast love for family, we internalized the values he embodied, aspiring to cultivate families of our own characterized by the same fierce love and discipline he instilled in us. If loss were merely a flavor, we would have spat it out before we could even blink. Instead, it transcends mere taste; it manifests as a wailing cry sent forth to a dark and absent sky, with no answer to soothe our anguish. As tears streamed down our cheeks, burning and heavy, we succumbed to moments of tantalizing despair, helplessly witnessing how it corroded the joyful memories that our minds had lovingly tucked away.

In this life, there are three inevitable realities we grapple with and grow to regret as time relentlessly propels us forward. The innocence and exhilaration of “Youth” slip away unnoticed, much like sand through fingers; the heartwarming yet tumultuous experience of “First Love” can lead to either serene contentment or a harrowing heartache; and the phase of Dependency, often referred to colloquially as “Zipper Blues,” confronts us with a raw truth—the carefree existence we once led becomes too expansive for our reality, forcing us to navigate a harsh world laden with challenges. The world shifts its role akin to a schoolyard bully, kicking and mocking us, tormenting us as we traverse the already tumultuous years of our lives.

There are moments when life feels incomprehensibly cruel as if a cold blade has pierced our hearts, laughing mockingly as it drains away our vitality. The cries of pain echo in the chasm of our souls, and in response, life offers a bittersweet smile, cradling a sharp needle as it murmurs in a sad yet strangely comforting tone, “I can try to mend you again.”

It’s a profoundly unsettling experience when the radiant light of joy in our world is abruptly eclipsed by an unexpected and oppressive cloud. This cloud hangs heavily, suspended in the atmosphere, lingering like an unwelcome guest, pulling our spirits deeper into an abyss of despair. It marks the end of laughter that once resonated sweetly through our lives, leaving behind only echoes that taunt our hearts. The rooms that once buzzed with revelry and jubilant conversation now stand empty, cold, and hushed. Outside, the front porch’s once vibrant energy has become desolate, leaves strewn about an empty chair, a testament to the passage of time and loss. The warmth of guests who once filled the space with chatter and laughter has dissipated; the birds that once flocked nearby, hoping for a morsel, have all but vanished; and even the lazy cat, which had sought solace in our generosity night after night, has found no reason to linger.

You were the steadfast beam supporting the foundation of a family now fractured, though the house still stands, an empty shell of its former life. Its solitary inhabitants remain trapped in the memories, praying that you have found solace in that eternal light of love you so cherished. You lived your life like a nightingale, soaring high among the irritating squawks of crows, until the fragrant scent of roses lured you away, compelling you to seek out the peaceful Garden of your eternal abode. We are left to grapple with the pain of separation and a relentless longing; even as the tears have finally run dry, how can the weary heart ever hope to find peace?

CHAPTER 2 IN THE BEGINNING

“The two most important days in your life
are the day you are born,
and the day you find out why.”
–-Mark Twain

One eerily dark and fierce night, on my third birthday, when the moon glanced from behind a thick veil of clouds, a sense of foreboding filled the air. It was on this peculiar evening, as I lay in my crib, that an ethereal voice seemed to resonate from above, wrapping around me like a gentle embrace. It broke the stillness, asking two profoundly significant questions that would echo through my mind for years to come: “What will thy ambitions be in this life? And why?”

I reluctantly clicked off the Johnny Carson Show, momentarily breaking the spell of my surroundings. I set down the remote, feeling the weight of the questions settle upon my young shoulders, and replied earnestly, “I want to revel in the splendor of all creation—the vibrant warmth of the sun, the delicate glow of the moon, and the twinkling stars that dance across the night sky. I believe deeply in their Creator, who has fashioned this breathtaking wonder.”

I paused, the gravity of my aspirations hanging in the air. “I yearn to love and serenade every form of beauty I encounter, whether it be a colorful flower blooming in spring or the majestic mountains standing tall. It is, I believe, the duty and necessity of a poet to acknowledge and celebrate the exquisite tapestry of life that unfolds around us.”

With excitement swelling in my chest, I continued with fervor, “I wish to embrace poetry with an open heart, to embody the truthful voice of nature itself. I dream of one day understanding the songs of the birds, translating their melodious calls and whispers into words that capture their essence.”

After sharing my hopes, silence enveloped me, stretching on with a promise of something profound. Then, like a gentle sigh of affirmation, the Voice above me responded softly, “Bless your heart!”

Just then, the door swung open, and I turned to see Mommy enter the room, her face adorned with a warm smile, shaking her head in amusement, and whispered, “Are you mumbling to yourself again?” With that, she lovingly approached my crib and quickly changed my diapers.

I was born and raised in the enchanting Land of Cedars, in a quaint little village called Bint Jbeil, known affectionately in the family as Talat Massoud. Ironically, I had never laid eyes on a Cedar tree until I decided to search for one online thirty years later, far from my homeland. When I finally did see a Cedar, it struck me as nothing more than a grand Mexican sombrero, its wide, leafy crown contrasting with my childhood imaginings.

My grandfather, Massoud Makki, was a man of great vision who fortuitously acquired a stunning piece of land that overlooked the entire expanse of Bint Jbeil. He was the monarch of our families, a steadfast figure who laid the groundwork for his heirs with unwavering dedication and hard work. Yet, in a curious twist of fate, it seemed that his two eldest daughters bore the brunt of the labor. I often wondered what the men in the family were up to during these strenuous times; their contributions remain a mystery to me.

The bulk of the toil fell upon my mother, Rasmieh, and her delightful sister Nahla, my beloved aunt. Together, they would embark on long journeys, their backs bent under the weight of heavy burdens, yet they trudged along without a single complaint, embodying strength and resilience. Meanwhile, the youngest sister, the beautiful Najla, flitted about our idyllic surroundings like a whimsical angel, her fingers tracing the blossoms in the gardens and her laughter echoing through the fields. As time passed, she would grow into a nurturing mother, inviting friends to play card games in her American home while raising two sons and a daughter.

I hold the early years of my childhood in vivid clarity, despite having only spent the first seven years of my life there. Those memories feel as fresh as if they happened yesterday, filled with the joy and warmth found in a tiny home perched atop that fabled hill, surrounded by breathtaking beauty. It was in those simple moments, amidst the rustic charm of our village, that I forged some of my happiest and most treasured memories.

Like the one time my eldest brothers, Mohamed and Mahmoud constructed a wooden cart, and ran over my hand, tearing off my fingernail in the process. I remember crying without end, but fortunately, my hand continued to function. Another time, my other brother Khalil was toying with my grandfather’s prized donkey, but not in an ill-mannered and perverse way, he may have been bathing him, or saddling him; I can’t remember, but I decided to feed it by hand, and just as my finger was healing from the wooden cart incident, the hee-hawing bastard took both the food and my hand into its mouth, and my screams echoed down to the village. The poor donkey ended up being tied to the fig tree and received many lashes of fine leather. To this very day, I still wear that scar.

And out of the blue, Uncle Rabih arrived from Beirut, the footloose and fancy-free one, who joked and ridiculed everything and everyone around him. He had this laugh, almost like a hyena. He was the intelligent one in the entire clan, and like me, the youngest in his family. He grabbed me one time as he shouldered his rifle, and bird hunting we went. We walked and talked, mostly philosophical and poetry, and then rested and waited for the first poor bird to flutter by. When that happy bird came singing, my Uncle aimed his rifle and shattered that poor bastard to pieces. He boasted his fine shooting skills and handed me what was no more than bits and pieces of a once happy and joyous musician of the skies. After my sister cleaned and cooked it, there was enough meat to feed two singing crickets.

Certain memories remain lodged in the sidewalls of your mind. You can’t remember the exact details, but you can still vaguely recall their nature as if it were only yesterday. I may have been 5 or 6 years old and still remember my brother Khalil coming home all bloody-faced from a street fight, and my Father fiercely arguing with him. I also remember the two large boulders on our property that served as lookout posts when we played war games amidst the fig and olive trees. The picnics we had with only bread, tomatoes, and onions rolled into a sandwich. But it was mostly figs we ate, and our bellies were always stuffed, and we were forced to pay the price later when squatting in the great outdoors. No, there was no toilet paper, just rocks and leaves, and some rocks were sharp. Once in a while, we would find Israeli bomb shells lying around, and we would foolishly toil with them unwary of the dangers. War was a major issue in our time, and will eventually cause our predestined immigration from Lebanon.

CHAPTER 3 THREE ROOSTERS

“My hair is grey, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
As men’s have grown from sudden fears.”
–Byron

On one particularly dark and chaotic day in Bint Jbeil, a town where medical facilities were few and far between and doctors often made house calls instead of manning clinics, my parents transformed into nightmarish figures reminiscent of characters from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It was the day we had long anticipated, dubbed “Trim The Rooster Day,” a rite of passage that marked our transition into adulthood. The unfortunate subjects of this family tradition were my two brothers, Hussein and Hassan, alongside myself—three terrified boys bracing ourselves for an experience that would haunt our memories for years to come.

As my father commenced his speech about the virtues of manhood and the importance of this ritual, an array of emotions swirled through us. Just as he reached the climax of his “adulthood speech,” Hussein, overwhelmed by a mix of fear and mortification, dashed off into the night, tears streaming down his face. A frantic search party—comprised of cousins and concerned neighbors assembled to hunt him down, their calls and bright flashlights cutting through the darkness.

Meanwhile, Hassan, caught in a frenzy of his own, began to run around in wild circles, flailing like a chicken that had just lost its head. His antics escalated when he leaped through a neighbor’s window, narrowly avoiding a flower pot in the process, and quickly locked himself inside their bathroom as if it were a sanctuary from the impending doom. As for me, paralyzed by confusion and a wave of anxiety, I stood frozen in place, succumbing to the unavoidable pressure and wetting my pants in the process.

As dawn broke, casting a soft light over our chaotic night, Hussein was finally apprehended. The three of us were herded outside, where the neighborhood had gathered, and there stood the doctor with an absurdly oversized pair of scissors that seemed to gleam ominously in the sun. The very sight of it sent shivers down my spine. What started as a dreaded family ritual had morphed into an impromptu neighborhood spectacle, with friends, relatives, and onlookers all eagerly awaiting the “trimming of our Roosters.”

I was astonished my parents didn’t seize this opportunity to charge admission; they could have made a fortune as the crowd grew larger, all eager to witness this bizarre rite of passage. The drawing of breath for what seemed like the final time filled the air as the doctor approached, scissors in hand. After what felt like an eternity filled with pain, slight bleeding, and overwhelming embarrassment under the watchful eyes of the entire neighborhood, the deed was finally done.

Afterward, our “Roosters” were meticulously bandaged up like mummies, each of us nursing our pride and painful memories. The discomfort lingered far longer than I anticipated, with the very thought of using the bathroom reminding me of that fateful day. We left the event more than just scarred; we were marked—both in body and in spirit—by a communal experience that would bind us as brothers forever.

And what would an honest and serious story be without the mention of those ever-cunning and sly jinns that roam our lands? I, myself, have never encountered them or witnessed their antics firsthand, but tales of their mischief have always been as plentiful as tabouli and olive oil gracing a traditional Lebanese dinner table. My cousin, for instance, forged an unusual friendship with two Jinn—one tall, with an imposing presence, and the other short, sprightly, and full of energy. They would readily assist her in various endeavors, from mundane tasks to more extraordinary feats.

One particularly fascinating story I heard involved a relative who had just arrived from the airport, only to realize that she had misplaced a precious belonging. In an act that seemed straight out of a fantasy, one of the Jinn was summoned to retrieve the item, darting back and forth with a swiftness that put even the fastest cars and swiftest horses to shame. The details of that day remain foggy in my memory, but the essence of their incredible speed caught my imagination.

Among the many tales I cherish, one heartbreaking story stands out and paints a vivid picture of the dashing Abu Koussa Hashua. On a radiant, sunlit afternoon, he dressed himself in a fine suit, casually strolling toward a wedding reception, embodying confidence and charm. Suddenly, from the depths of a nearby thicket, an elderly lady—gray-haired and missing teeth—leaped forth, shaking her head vigorously as if warning him of an impending doom. In a blink, she vanished into thin air, leaving Abu Koussa in a state of sheer panic. Abu Koussa sadly performed a number two in his pants and quickly swooned from the fright. Upon waking to his senses, he dripped and smelled so bad, that he took off his pants and ran naked through the village back home to hide. The embarrassment proved unbearable, and henceforth, he became known as Abu Bantalun Hashua, a name that evoked chuckles and pity in equal measure.

On another occasion, while milking a cow, Kawwaz Ibn Al Kalb was petrified when the cow became possessed by one of the Jinns. It turned its head to him and started to curse his whole generation in arabic tongue for pulling too hard on the nipples. He jumped up and let out such a scream, that the cow became so restless, and kicked him right below the belt line. Ibn Al Kalb would go on to have no more children. The townsfolk still recall his exclamations of pain mixed with disbelief, a cautionary tale shared among farmers.

Contrary to the tales of mischief and mayhem, not all Jinn are portrayed as malevolent. Some display kindness and offer assistance in human affairs. One story that comes to mind is about the very bubbly wife of Shmandar Al Sakran. She was a very suspicious woman who didn’t trust her husband. He would disappear for hours every night of the week. And all her prayers were answered one night when a Jinn appeared disguised as an old and kind Hajj. He would take her by the hand across a dark open field. They came upon an entrance to a cave, where he pointed to its opening telling her, “Your curiosity lies in there.” Though she appears to be frightened and skeptical she enters, and sure enough, she finds Shmandar with his young and voluptuous mistress doing the happy dance. Poor Shmandar, like Ibn Al Kalb and the cow, will also see no children in his future. It took the most skilled doctors from France fifteen hours to stitch the rooster back on.

Such stories of Jinn seem to swirl endlessly around us, captivating our imaginations and giving us pause. Each night, as I lay my head down to sleep, I thank God for keeping them away from me.

My mother, along with my two eldest brothers, was preparing to leave us behind as they set off for our second home in America. The day they departed was etched in my memory; I can still recall the cascade of tears I shed throughout the night, convinced that my mother had abandoned us. It felt as though we were now at the mercy of my father, whose culinary skills were questionable at best. One particular evening, he decided to make Yekhneh Wa Ruz, a dish that would soon become infamous in our household. The result was a thick, overly salty tomato stew that left us feeling queasy for an entire week. The rice, which he had mismanaged, turned out so soft it resembled a pile of mashed potatoes. Yet despite the culinary catastrophe, he took great pride in his cooking, preparing enough to last us three days.

In the midst of all this, I have a vivid memory of my sister Abdeh and a delightful chocolate treat that we adored, known as “Rass El Abed,” or “Slave’s Head.” With our mother already in America, Abdeh took on a nurturing role, almost like a second mother to me. I clung to her side, reluctant to let her out of my sight. Wherever she went—whether visiting friends or running errands—I would eagerly tag along, knowing that I would be rewarded with sweet, marshmallow-coated treats. Abdeh’s friends welcomed me with open arms, and as they sipped their coffee while the soft melodies of Samira Toufic played in the background, I indulged in ample amounts of the chocolaty “Slave Head,” blissfully unaware of the toll it was taking on my teeth.

During those days, Abdeh never treated me like extra baggage; instead, she filled my life with warmth and joy, ensuring that I felt cared for despite the absence of our mother. The bonds we formed during that time created lasting memories that I hold dear to this day.

CHAPTER 4 ON FOREIGN SOIL

I’ve realized I don’t need to keep looking for my path.
I’m already on it. I just need to trust where it leads.
–Teresa R. Funke

The fabled United States of America, is a land of paradoxes, where the very design of its drugstores reflects the quirks of its culture. Here, the sick are often sent trudging to the back of the store to collect their prescriptions, all while healthier customers casually purchase cigarettes at the front, a stark reminder of the nation’s complicated relationship with health and wellness. Upon our arrival in this complex society, we found ourselves navigating a reality where one toils relentlessly for seven days, only to receive a paycheck that seems to vanish as soon as the bills are paid. With a bit of luck, and if you happen to secure a high-paying job, you might scrape together a couple of hundred dollars by month’s end—just enough for groceries and perhaps a new pair of snowshoes. But if a married couple both worked tirelessly, by the end of the year and after paying all the bills, they would have saved enough to take a family of three to Disney Land for a one-night stay. A once-in-a-lifetime kind of escape.

I grew up on Morross Street, a place I now look back on with a sense of nostalgia as “Memory Street.” My siblings would often tease me, calling me spoiled, given that I was the youngest in the family. I would playfully retort, “Mom and Dad just kept having children until they found one they liked,” the banter often lighthearted and filled with love.

My two oldest brothers took on an array of odd jobs to ensure there was food on the table; their work included driving cabs and even slaughtering pigs before they finally transitioned into factory jobs. As their financial situation improved, they began to indulge in the finer things life had to offer. My oldest brother, Mohamed, developed an obsession with his hair. Sundays often found him in the finest salon that Dearborn had to offer, known as Milano. The infectious beats of “Saturday Night Fever” captivated our home, prompting family dance parties to the energetic rhythms of the Bee Gees. When it was time for haircuts, my dad would prepare the bowl and scissors, eagerly awaiting us in the garage, often inspired by Moe Curly of the Three Stooges. But the disco music played non-stop, the times were simple, and the beer drinking ensued. Luckily for me, I never turned out to be an alcoholic.

While Mohamed and Tamir Makki were sporting bell bottoms and fancy haircuts preparing for a Friday night adventure, my neighbor Eric and I plotted to sneak into the fridge for a beer raid during their absence. The fridge always overflowed with popular brands like Lowenbrau and Miller High Life, a tempting invitation. After my first taste of a buzz, which was certainly not to be my last, the coming years unfolded with lewdness and revelry; those youthful escapades would remain my secret until my dying day.

Then there was Tamir Makki, a character all on his own. They say that one key to happiness is having a poor memory, but I have a vivid recollection of a moment that came perilously close to ending my life in our living room. One afternoon, I was quietly working on my homework while waiting for my brother and Tamir, who had both recently entered the house after what seemed like an eternity. Tamir had come in a particularly jolly mood, but it soon descended into chaos when he and his wife got into a heated argument. In a moment of fury, she hurled an ashtray in his direction, narrowly missing my forehead. Had I not managed to dodge it at the last second, I dread to think of the outcome. It was a harbinger of the tumult that would lead to a foreseen divorce for Tamir down the line.

Abdullah, another of my brother’s friends, often took part in our youthful adventures. I remember the routine of collecting old newspapers with him, packing them into his car, and driving downtown Detroit to recycle them for cash. Abdullah would typically arrive every Sunday in his “cruise mobile,” a charming beater we’d use to stop by the drive-thru party store on Warren and Kingsley for sodas. With the disco music thumping from the car’s speakers, we would cruise along Warren Avenue, lost in the carefree joy of our youth. Disco was the dominant tune in our household until an unexpected gift from a school friend shifted my musical allegiance forever. The vinyl album, Eat a Peach, by the Allman Brothers was the first rock album I ever heard. On that day, my eyes opened, my ears had an orgasm, and I grew some hair on my balls. I would proudly divorce disco and marry rock music. As Ozzy Osbourne famously said, “You can’t kill Rock and Roll; it’s here to stay.” The years passed and my brother’s friends drifted apart. Legend has it that Tamir Makki’s adventures would later be written into a movie, which would star Matthew McConaughey in, Dazed and Confused. Tamir would later sue for copyright infringement.

Every son, in both word and action, often emulates his father. My second brother, Mahmoud, was a more laid-back character, relishing tunes from Abdel Halim and Elvis. He embodied my father’s essence, mirroring his path in life through the number of children he had—his household being blessed with more daughters than sons. Mahmoud held a deep-seated enthusiasm for used cars, particularly old taxi cabs. Every couple of weeks, he would pull into the driveway with his latest acquisition, often a clunker boasting three hundred thousand miles. I found little interest in his car choices, my focus solely on knowing they would serve as a vehicle to acquire the coveted treats from Baskin Robbin’s ice cream parlor. My best friend, Eric Barron, and I eagerly anticipate the weekends, dreams of indulging in black cherry and vanilla fudge swirling in our heads.

However, one sweltering summer day, August 16, 1977, brought the shattering of our youthful aspirations. After an exhilarating bike ride, Eric and I raced into my house, searching for my brother, ice cream at the forefront of our minds. Mahmoud sat at the kitchen table, his face a portrait of despair, his eyes wide and trembling as he absorbed the news from the AM radio.

I said to him, “Eric and I want ice cream, can you take us?”

“ICE CREAM!!” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with frustration and disbelief, “Elvis just died, and you want ice cream!?”

We walked out discouraged, and Eric said, “It’s okay, my mom will take us.”

We ran excitedly to his house next door and found his mom sitting on the couch crying, and his dad standing by the fireplace shaking his head in disbelief. That was the day I realized how important Elvis Presley was. We both were very upset, and we mourned and cried all day. Not for Elvis, though.

As the years rolled by, my weekends became a cherished routine, spent almost entirely with my friend Eric at his family’s cottage nestled in Kingsville, Ontario. These weekends were not just escapes; they were the backdrop for some of the happiest days of my youth, filled with laughter, adventure, and the kind of innocence that only childhood can provide. It was here, amidst the tranquility of nature, that I experienced my first crush on a girl named Sarah Lawn. Her laughter danced through the air like music, and the way the sunlight caught in her hair left a lasting impression on my young heart. My emotions for her blossomed into what I thought was love, a fleeting but profound sensation that taught me the beauty and agony of puppy love, which inevitably faded as quickly as it had ignited. Yet, Sarah became the inspiration behind my very first love poem—one that I penned earnestly in an attempt to capture the essence of my feelings. Without her spark, it’s hard to imagine that poetry would have found a place in my life at all.

One particularly significant figure during those formative years was Jido Massoud, who came to visit and stayed at our house for a spell. He was not just a guest; he quickly became a fixture in my life. Almost every weekday afternoon, I would come home to find him patiently waiting for me in our cozy living room, a deck of cards set out neatly beside him, his face lighting up as soon as I entered. Basra was his game of choice, a captivating card game that combined strategy and luck, and together we would spend countless hours engaged in friendly competition. The objective was simple yet exhilarating—a race to reach 101 points before the other player. The game hinged on the clever use of cards, particularly the Jack, which, when played right, would sweep all the cards from the table in a triumphant flourish.

One vivid image that remains etched in my memory is the exasperated huffing and puffing that would escape his lips each time I deployed the Jack and swept the cards clean. His expressive face would contort in mock dismay, a blend of frustration and humor that made our gaming sessions all the more memorable. Our time together was spent not just in competition, but in the quiet camaraderie that blossomed between us. Unfortunately, our joyful times were limited. After his visit, Jido flew back to Lebanon, and it wasn’t long before I received the heart-wrenching news of his passing a year later. Losing him felt like a tremendous weight in my young heart.

Adding to the heaviness of those early Eighties was the memory of my Aunt Meriam, whose life was taken from us in a senseless act of violence years before. Her absence left a profound emptiness that loomed over our family. As the decade unfolded, it seemed that it held no sweet moments for me, only a collection of bittersweet memories that shaped my understanding of love, loss, and the fragility of life.

CHAPTER 5 BELL-BOTTOM BLUES

“God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.”
― J.M. Barrie

Michigan had firmly established itself as our new home, a place where the Gardener embarked on a journey of toil and labor reminiscent of his earlier days in the fabled Land of Cedars. As spring unfurled its vibrant colors across Michigan’s landscape, He eagerly grabbed his trusty pick and shovel, transforming the earth into a beautiful garden that flourished with life. Every day, clad in his wide-brimmed sombrero that shaded his face from the sun, he would dutifully plow and cultivate the soil. His dedication to this garden was profound, but soon, his affection would shift to something even more intense, something we all came to know with both reverence and jest as the forever infamous Pear Tree.

Tending to that tree consumed his days, and under his care, it blossomed magnificently, producing a fine crunchy pear—admittedly, not the soft and sweet kind that one’s heart might crave. I remember the times when I, filled with youthful exuberance, would climb its sturdy branches and swing from them, and He would often shout in mock exasperation, his flaming nostrils flaring in his attempts to chase me away from his beloved tree. In quieter moments, He would sit in leisurely contemplation beneath its expansive branches, sipping tea and smoking a cigarette, relishing the view of the tree rising toward the infinite blue sky. In those moments, life felt perfect, and happiness enveloped us all.

As the years rolled by, the family grew exponentially with the arrival of grandkids, who popped into our lives like kernels of popcorn, each bringing their brand of joy and chaos. By the time I reached high school graduation, I proudly assumed the title of Uncle to more nephews and nieces than I could conveniently count. Good-naturedly, when they gathered at our house, I would delight in staging elaborate performances, pretending to be possessed by a demon, and successfully scaring the living daylights out of them. Perhaps watching The Exorcist seven times wasn’t my best idea, but it sure provided endless entertainment! Thankfully, they all grew up healthy and well-adjusted, a true blessing from the universe. Yet, with the joy of many children came the quaint nuisance of the ice cream truck’s cheerful jingle, which quickly emptied my wallet. In my loving uncle’s ingenuity, I devised a master plan: whenever the faint strains of the ice cream truck reached our ears, I would yell, “Hide and seek! I’ll go hide inside the house, and whoever finds me gets a big surprise! Go!”

Life was speeding along like a roller coaster, thrilling yet unpredictable, until one fateful day when it all came to a screeching halt. Time felt as if it was frozen when I stumbled upon my brother’s secret book stash, cleverly hidden within a cabinet outside my parents’ bedroom. It was my brother Mahmoud who first opened my world to the beauty of poetry, introducing me to the lyrical genius of Khalil Gibran. The day he handed me a copy of The Broken Wings, I felt a spark ignite within me; my heart discovered its true calling. For the very first time, I felt rooted, my feet planted firmly on the ground while my mind cleared away the chaos, and I instinctively knew that poetry would be my guiding light for years to come.

The Camelot Theater swiftly became my second home, a sanctuary of cinematic wonder where I experienced my first ever film, Young Frankenstein. Each Friday morning, my friends and I would hop on our bicycles, racing towards the theater to eagerly await the announcement of the upcoming films, always claiming the front row seats as our own. However, the candy prices at the theater were steep, so we devised a clever plan. Before purchasing our tickets for whatever PG-rated movie was playing, we would scurry over to Perry Drugs across the street, filling our pockets to the brim with candy, ready to enjoy each flick without breaking the bank. We weren’t cheap; we were simply smart shoppers!

With the R-rated movies, obtaining access proved to be a bit trickier. A particular Richard Pryor film had captured my interest, and I was determined to see it with my cousin, Richie Mackie. We thought my brother Hussein would be the perfect accomplice, yet he and his partner in crime, Abdul Mackie, quickly turned us down. Frustrated, we ran to our Aunt Najla and pleaded our case, and she insisted that we all go together or none of us would go at all. Thanks to Mr. Pryor, my grasp of colorful language expanded rapidly, embedding itself into my daily vernacular.

Amid all the laughter and excitement, there was one thing that I yearned for—my brother Hussein’s bike. It was a midsize beauty, perfectly tailored for me, with sleek handlebars and lightning speed that made it utterly alluring. Yet, his heart was rigid, greedy, and stubborn; he would lock it up with a chain, laughing away while I stared longingly at it. But I knew that one day, the tables would turn, and I would have the last laugh.

Fast forward a few years, when I needed a ride to collect my driving papers from school, Mahmoud graciously insisted that I take his prized possession, a blue Oldsmobile he had just purchased and was immensely proud of. Though hesitant at first, he eventually handed me the keys, and with a rush of excitement, I took off. However, slick roads and heavy traffic transformed my joyride into a disaster as I crashed his beloved car on Ford Road, leaving him devastated. To console him, Mahmoud suggested that Ford Motor Company was releasing a sexy new model and that they should check out the latest Escorts together. As years passed, I kept the truth about the crash a secret, knowing full well that eating black cherry ice cream with a spoon while driving in such conditions was a recipe for disaster.

Khalil, an enigmatic and often perplexed individual, grew up in a world defined by his imagination. His life unfolded like a tale reminiscent of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland but infused with the rich tapestry of Arabic culture. He held a peculiar belief that if he ventured to truly open his mind, his thoughts might spill out uncontrollably, so he chose instead to remain quiet and subdued. He immersed himself in work, adopting a routine that kept him isolated from the world around him. To the casual observer, he seemed like a goldfish, endlessly swimming in a bowl, moving through life without a clear sense of direction or purpose. Most days were repetitive; he worked diligently, returned home to sleep, and on weekends, he found comfort in the slow and steady growth of grass in the yard. It was hard to say whether Khalil even recognized the name of our street or if he had any genuine connection to me. His life was shrouded in mystery until, with time, his mind began to expand and ponder deeper questions of logic and reasoning. It was then that he married into the Jomaa Family, much like I did. Together with his wife Safa, they created a family, welcoming two sons and two beautiful daughters into their fold.

The phenomenon of crashing cars became disturbingly common within our family. My brother Hassan worked for the Saad Brothers, who ruled the city, thinking they were some Sicilian mafia family back then with their business and fancy mustaches. One day, while delivering goods in a meat van, Hassan carelessly collided with a city tree, igniting a spiraling series of events filled with reckless behavior and dashed hopes. He idolized Roger Waters and embraced the Rock and Roll lifestyle, his mind brimming with dreams of grandeur as he listened to Pink Floyd. In playful imitation, he would often channel Roger Waters, brandishing a cucumber as a makeshift microphone. My father’s garden became a frequent target for his antics; Hassan would invade it repeatedly, harvesting cucumbers for his rock star dreams yet never consuming them. Distraught by the mysterious disappearance of his prized produce, my father began counting the cucumbers, eventually suspecting the local squirrels as culprits.

Hassan’s rebellious spirit would lead him down a tumultuous path, culminating in his decision to run away from home – a moment that marked the first time I ever saw our father shed genuine tears. He ended up in Ohio, echoing an uncertain future, and our brothers ventured to bring him back. However, his journey was fraught with challenges; he had trouble with the law and fathered a child out of wedlock. This estrangement would later become a source of frustration for my brother Mahmoud, as they were dragged into countless court dates and the burdensome reality of legal fines. Regrettably, Hassan would not fulfill his dream of becoming a rock star and touring the world. Instead, he honed his skills as a mechanic, eventually finding stability in life through marriage — yes, another Jomaa— and successfully raising four boys and a beautiful girl.

My sisters, Abdeh and Samar, carved out a more subdued existence, focusing on family life. They brought joy to our mother, helping to lighten her burdens while ensuring we all had healthy meals and a warm home. On our very first Halloween, Abdeh and Samar, still in their adolescence, decided to venture out in search of candy, blissfully unaware that trick-or-treating was typically meant for children. When the neighbors laughed at their enthusiasm, raising eyebrows and sharing jokes, they soon recognized the playful misunderstanding. The following Halloween, rather than heading out again, they chose to celebrate at home, dancing and laughing to the infectious rhythms of KC and The Sunshine Band. As time passed, Samar eventually married and began to raise a large family, while Abdeh chose a different path, marrying later in life and, impressively, managing to raise four children on her own. Their lives, though quiet, were filled with the profound strength of family and the bonds of love that tethered us all together.

CHAPTER 6 BIKES AND STRIKES

“Our lives were just beginning,
Our favorite moment was right now,
Our favorite songs were unwritten.”
–Rob Sheffield

My youth was a joyful time, filled with vivid memories that sparkled with the brightness of new experiences. We found ourselves in a strange land, surrounded by unfamiliar sights and sounds, and I vividly recall the challenge of adapting to a different way of life. My parents, in their enthusiasm for settling into our new environment, had a quirky habit of overstocking our home with a plethora of items that seemed completely unnecessary at the time. Every corner of our house was filled, from stacks of colorful napkins to jars overflowing with sugar. The freezer, a veritable treasure trove, was loaded with enough meat that could easily feed a small African country for weeks.

One particularly memorable episode involved a grand scheme my father devised during a sale at Kroger, where sugar was offered at a tantalizing discount, albeit with a limit of two bags per customer. Determined to seize the opportunity, he enlisted the help of a few of my friends: Mohamed “Catfish” Baydoun, Tarek Chirri, and Hassan Irani. With a dollar bill in each of our hands, we were tasked with purchasing two bags of sugar each. This ingenious plan resulted in a small mountain of ten bags of sugar being stowed away in our pantry—enough to sweeten countless cups of coffee and tea for the next two years. In those days, coffee and tea were more than beverages; they were the very essence of hospitality, and our home frequently welcomed a stream of guests.

One guest who remains etched in my memory is the talkative Mr. Mroue, a towering figure of chatter from Morrow Circle Street. Every time he crossed the threshold of our home, he had an uncanny ability to monopolize the conversation, effortlessly keeping my father awake far past the hour when most would have gone to sleep. On one particularly long Friday night, my brother Mohamed returned home from work just as my father was making his way to bed, weary from the long day. Yet, Mr. Mroue commandeered the evening, compelling my brother to brew another pot of coffee and stay for an additional two hours. Tragically, Mr. Mroue’s life would come to a devastating end one fateful day during a heated argument with his son. His passing shook the entire neighborhood and that was the day we all experienced a real-life homicide that played out not on the television, but two blocks away. Despite the sorrow of Mr. Mroue’s passing, life continued its relentless march forward, and our home remained a haven for visitors. Over the years, other guests like Hussein Saab and Ali Chami became fixtures in our lives, contributing to the tapestry of memories that were woven into our everyday existence.

Fridays were especially magical for me; they ignited a deep sense of excitement within my soul. I could hear the screeching brakes of bicycles outside my window, followed by that familiar knock on my door. It was my old crew—Hussein Bazzy, Catfish Beydoun, Hassan Irani, Derek Unis, and Tarek Chirri—all armed with baseball mitts, rubber balls, and aluminum bats, ready for an adventure. I would dash to the garage, where my Kuwahara bicycle awaited me, and I would ride off with my friends to McDonald’s school, eager to engage in a raucous game of strikeout. The strikeout box was freshly painted with chalk, providing us a pristine canvas for the day’s competition as we batted and pitched to our hearts’ content.

Hussein Bazzi, brimming with pride, often showcased his brand-new bike, its shiny frame glinting in the sunlight. However, disaster struck one day when two black boys, casually walking down the alley, suddenly made a beeline for our bicycles. In a swift, heart-stopping moment, they hopped onto Hussein’s prized possession and my Takara BMX, speeding away into the urban wilderness of Detroit. Panic engulfed us as Hussein shouted in distress, tugging at his hair in frustration, before racing home to inform his father. His dad hopped into his 1988 Cadillac Brougham, determined to scour the area in search of the stolen bikes, but despite his efforts, he returned empty-handed. He assured Hussein that a new bike was on its way, and soon he would be cruising not on two wheels, but in a vibrant red IROC-Z automobile, a promise that brought a glimmer of hope amidst the disappointment.

As the years rolled by, they drifted like clouds before a fast-approaching storm, and we began to boast our Motorola pagers with pride, eager to be part of that fleeting moment of technology. Whenever a pager would buzz, we would race to the nearest payphone, our pockets jingling with quarters and dimes that always seemed to find their way into our Guess Jeans. Shadi, Norman, and Jamal would appear at the door, and off we would venture to Cush N Cue, where we would huddle around the pool tables for a game. With the crisp scent of Drakker and Cool Water cologne in the air, we roamed the immaculate streets of the night, clinking cold brews and eagerly admiring the scantily clad girls who lit up our youthful escapades. The echoes of laughter, camaraderie, and the unyielding spirit of youth lingered in those moments, etching a vibrant chapter in the story of my formative years.

Sundays were special, and it was a day we all looked forward to. It was tackle football on the “Island” and the usual gang would show up, along with Eido Alawan and Hamzeh Beydoun. Eido had this aura to him and everybody wanted to tackle him. Even in a huddle with no visible ball in his hands, I would tackle him for the sheer joy of it. When Hassan Irani noticed dog poop on the field, he devised a cruel plan. He would throw the ball to Eido and guide him in the direction of the steamy poop, and I would tackle him. The day did not end well for Eido. We all drove to the cleaners on Schaefer Road, and he only had a towel wrapped around him while his clothes were in the washer. The temptation was far too great, as I swiped the towel off of him and ran off with it. He ran around like a chicken with its head cut off with his “Rooster” dangling and nearly gave two old ladies there a heart attack.

My cousin Richie Makki and I found ourselves increasingly immersed in the world of bicycles. It started as a simple pastime: we roamed the neighborhood, fixing up old bikes and racing them through the winding streets. I had always harbored a dream of owning a flashy BMX bike, ideally a Redline or a Super Goose, with their vibrant colors and sleek designs. Unfortunately, my aspirations often collided with reality, as they were far too expensive for my budget. Instead, I settled for a Takara BMX, an unassuming model that I took great pride in rebuilding myself, pouring hours of hard work and dedication into it.

One rainy afternoon, a thrill ran through us as Richie suggested we race on Miller Road. The rain had slickened the asphalt, but the excitement of the race was irresistible. We decided to race from Morross Avenue to Tireman and back, and I felt the rush of adrenaline as I pedaled furiously ahead. I was closing in on the finish line, confident that victory was within my grasp. However, in a split second, the tire of my Takara began to spin uncontrollably. The next thing I knew, I was somersaulting through the air, my bike flying away from me as gravity took hold. I landed hard on my back, narrowly avoiding a blow to my head, and the impact sent shockwaves of pain through my body.

Luckily for me, the neighbor across the street who witnessed the whole fiasco was a nurse, and I was quickly cared for. For fear of my Mom’s heart shattering, I kept this incident hidden and she never found out about it. I was forced to smile in tremendous pain in front of her and carried on pretending all bruised and bandaged up. Richie’s Father (Uncle Sam), was so furious, he took the bikes away from us and placed them on the front lawn to be picked up on garbage day. While Richie was crying in his room, my brother Hussein and I grabbed the bikes before the trucks came by, and hid them in our garage. My injuries would heal, my Mother was saved from the wailing and crying, and youth passed us by before we could blink.

CHAPTER 7 MARRIAGE & BAGGAGE

“From the garden of your cheeks
One rose was picked;
With that rose
The eternal paradise was created.”
–Ibrahim Iraqi

Wherever beauty could be sought, I found myself behind the wheel, eagerly steering down countless winding roads. With every mesmerizing image that flitted across my field of vision—paths winding through sun-dappled forests, abandoned trails once vibrant with life, and forgotten corners of the world—I drove on, racking up the miles. Each journey filled my soul with a profound sense of humility, a gentle reminder of how small I am when far from the familiar comforts of home. Often, I reveled in the solitude, each moment alone in my car paired with a full tank of gas fueling my desire to escape the weight of daily troubles. The world outside my window unfolded like a vivid painting, with vibrant landscapes and the sweet symphony of nature—rustling leaves, chirping birds, and the whisper of the wind—calling me to explore. My heart became a poet as it jotted down the breathtaking beauty I encountered on each adventure. Upon returning home, I poured my energy into my work, saving diligently for the next journey, always yearning for the freedom of the open road and the endless possibilities that awaited me beyond the horizon.

As I grew older, I embraced the journey of self-discovery and personal growth, choosing to remain single for an extended period. During this time, I found myself constantly bombarded by the same well-meaning but frustrating questions from friends, family, and acquaintances alike: “Why aren’t you married yet? When are you going to tie the knot?” Each inquiry felt like a familiar refrain, playing on repeat in the background of my life.

On the outside, I maintained a composed demeanor, often managing a polite smile or a light laugh as I provided a vague response, deflecting the conversation. Inside, however, I wrestled with a mix of emotions—amusement at their curiosity, annoyance at the implications underlying their questions, and a lingering sense of self-doubt about my unconventional choices. It was a delicate balancing act, navigating my own feelings while trying to appease others’ expectations. On the outside, I would smile, and mumble a reply. But on the inside, I would fantasize about sticking a knife in their hearts and just keep turning it.

Perhaps it was the allure of solitude that I cherished most—the blissful freedom to pursue my desires without the constant chatter of someone else’s expectations nagging at my ears. I relished my quiet days, indulging in hobbies and thoughts that floated through my mind without interruption. However, my Uncle Hani Makki had different plans for me, and without my consent, I found myself married through a proxy, a fact that left me both bewildered and resigned.

As fate would have it, the Jomaa Train made its rounds once more, and I decided to jump aboard. This metaphorical journey symbolized my commitment as I navigated through the colorful chaos of the Dabajeh and Jomaa Fruit Salad, a vibrant dish that reflected my mixed feelings about matrimony. The name “Jomaa” translates to “Friday,” and it sparked a curious contemplation in me. What was it about this particular day that held such significance? It dawned on me that perhaps, thousands of years ago, someone delighted in the prospect of Fridays, eagerly awaiting the chance to unwind and bask in the joys of the weekend. Or maybe that individual simply harbored a disdain for work and looked forward to payday, hoping it would afford them a brief respite from daily toil. In a more humorous light, I wondered if Fridays were cherished because they were the only days spared from the relentless visits of their mother-in-law.

As I immersed myself in the realities of married life, I came to regard marriage as a peculiar bond—a delicate dance between two people: one who has an uncanny talent for forgetting birthdays and anniversaries, and the other who possesses a nearly photographic memory for such occasions, a chronicler of their shared history. To arm myself for this new chapter, I enrolled in a month-long seminar titled “Essentials of a Healthy Marriage.” Over those weeks, I absorbed a wealth of knowledge, repeatedly practicing the vital phrases that seemed crucial for harmony: “I’m sorry,” a necessary admission of fault; “You are right,” an essential gesture of validation; and “Did you lose weight?” a compliment meant to spark joy in my partner’s heart. Each phrase felt like a lifeline, my survival kit in the turbulence of navigating this unexpected union.

My wife’s name is Samar, which in Arabic means “Evening Talk.” And she is quite the babbler. She would ask the same question after hearing a hundred different answers. There was one time I saw her lips continue moving from the porch as my car reached the first stop sign on our block. Interestingly, in Hindu, her name takes on another layer of meaning: “Battlefield Commander.” This interpretation resonates with me more deeply, especially considering the delightful chaos of our married life. Miraculously, I’ve made it through all these years with her, emerging relatively unscathed—no painful scars or bitter memories to recount.

But she is kind and beautiful with a big heart, and at times very persistent during dinner time. I would stuff myself with enough food and drink to physically cross the Sahara Desert like a camel, and she would turn and say, “You barely ate. You’re not hungry?” Her warm heart and kindness were inherited from her Mother, who, unlike my wife, would sometimes cry if you didn’t lick your plate dry. We had a solid and happy marriage together, and we hardly argued and fought. There was only this one time my wife threatened me when she told me, “If you ever leave me, I’m going with you.” And so, I never did.

My firstborn arrived like a radiant rainbow of hope, and with his arrival, he quickly began to soften my Dad’s heart. I can still vividly remember the day Dad held him beneath the sprawling branches of the Pear Tree in our backyard, the sunlight filtering through the leaves, creating a dappled pattern on both of them. I eagerly clicked away with my camera, capturing that cherished moment forever. That photo, now a cherished family treasure, ultimately became iconic; little did we know then that the grandchild he cradled in his arms would inadvertently lead to the tree’s demise.

As Rashid reached the energetic age of two, my mother insisted that the Pear Tree should be cut down to make room for him to run and play freely. She envisioned a swing set in its place, a structure that could foster laughter and joy as he enjoyed the outdoors. However, her suggestion sparked a blistering argument that reverberated through the very walls of our home, shaking its foundation.

The sound of Dad’s raised voice echoed, filled with frustration and sadness, as heartache ensued in the heat of the moment. Beneath that loud exterior lay a conflict of feelings he seldom expressed. His love for the tree, profound yet hidden, was complicated by a deeper love that radiated every time he held Rashid in his arms. It was suffocating to witness the struggle; ultimately, the tree fell, a silent casualty of our family’s choices. Dad watched the end of an era unfold with a brooding stare, his gaze heavy with unspoken emotions, while the swing set — bright and cheerful — stood proudly in its stead.

Though fathers often appear formidable, with their booming voices and fiery looks, they quietly retreat when mothers wield their calm authority in discussions. In moments like this, we often overlook the emotional weight that some decisions carry. We may never truly grasp what that tree meant to him—its significance cloaked in layers of unexpressed feelings—but on that fateful day, an unsettling sense of foreboding pierced through me. I could almost feel the silent cries of his heart as he entered a season of sadness.

The sun shone down brightly that dreadful day, casting a harsh light on what would be our first gathering in that spacious yard without the comforting shade that the Pear Tree had once provided. Rashid, oblivious to the adult tensions swirling around him, laughed and played joyfully, while my Dad sat calmly, sipping his tea with a slight smile, casually puffing away on his cigarette. I watched them interact with a sense of bittersweet nostalgia, knowing Rashid would soon outgrow the swing set, moving on to bigger toys and adventures.

Just as my Dad’s health began to wane, a glimmer of joy arrived in the form of Rayan, a second grandchild who came into our lives like a ray of light. He was born in the brisk month of March, a time when Michigan weather seemed to delight in confounding our senses. One minute it felt like spring was upon us, and the next, we were left wondering whether we should prepare for a day at the beach or bundle up with light jackets and gather around for a cozy fire.

As the days turned hot and muggy, the pesky squirrels invaded our garden, drawing my Dad’s ire. I would watch from the comfort of my upstairs window, filled with amusement, as he charged outside with vigor, shouting and shaking his fists at the squirrels, who had pilfered his prized vegetables. Half-eaten tomatoes and cucumbers littered the ground, a testament to his struggle.

It was a sight to behold — a fully grown man, defiantly wielding a shovel, racing around the yard all morning and long into the day, chasing down those crafty animals. Gardeners have a unique pride in their accomplishments, and those unfortunate squirrels learned that lesson the hard way, facing the wrath of my Dad as he valiantly defended his beloved garden from their relentless onslaught.

“Warmth of sunlight and light of the moon.
She was a secret veiled in September,
And revealed to me in June.”
–H. Dabajeh

With our loving marriage unhinged, our lives were unexpectedly brightened by the arrival of a radiant and perfect rose, whom we named Rasmieh. She was the first and only daughter bestowed with my mother’s cherished name. Rasmieh came into our lives like a stunning flash of lightning, illuminating the dark corners of my heart and filling it with thunderous joy.

For a fleeting year and a half, my mother had the privilege of holding her precious granddaughter in her arms. Those moments were both blissful and heartbreaking, knowing that she would never get to see Rasmieh grow. Yet, in that short time, my mother watched in awe as Rasmieh took her first wobbly steps, each one a miracle carved into her heart. She cherished those brief moments without a single complaint to the Soul Taker, having prayed fervently for just enough time to witness her granddaughter walk. Her Maker graciously granted that wish, encapsulating both joy and sorrow in one single act of love.

Had my father laid eyes upon her, he would have surely burned with love and longing, and slowly melted like a candle through the night. Though their time on earth was limited, I remind myself that we should never dwell in regret over the briefness of life; instead, we should express gratitude for the moments the soul has fulfilled in alignment with its destiny. My father’s legacy lives on through my firstborn, who carries his name but possesses a much more talkative nature, often peppering our conversations with endless questions and playful banter.

One time Rashid asked me what it’s like to have a wife, so I told him, “Shut up, I have a headache.”

And as he started to walk away I shouted, “Where are you going? Are you ignoring me now?”

Kids ask too many questions, and rightly so, but I offered the best advice a father can give to his child. I told him, “Son, never leave clothes on the floor. There is a laundry basket for dirty socks and underwear. You fold them into a ball, prepare to shoot, and pray you make the shot! But if you miss, and you don’t remember to pick it up, you will receive a technical foul and no “Ice Cream for two nights.”

CHAPTER 8 TEARS FALL

“Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered: “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
–Edgar Allan Poe

The love and tenderness my dad kept hidden deep inside would finally reveal itself on a gloomy and dreadful day—the day my son suffered an unfortunate accident. Guests had just arrived, and coffee was being served. They chatted away, seemingly occupied, unaware that little Rayan was running and playing. Still a toddler and not yet able to walk, he reached out his tiny hand to grab the coffee table for support but mistakenly grabbed the hot coffee pot instead, spilling it over his hands and chest. Chaos ensued, and time seemed to stand still as shouts and cries filled the house.

Throughout my life, I have witnessed my father shed tears only three times. The first was when I was ten years old, and my brother decided to run away. The second was at the airport when Rashid, only two at the time, was preparing for a flight back to visit my Wife’s family. As he kissed our father goodbye, tears trickled down Dad’s face. The third and hardest moment for me to bear was when he walked into the hospital room to visit Rayan, finding him bandaged up like a mummy. To this day, I choke on my tears recalling how softly he turned to me, desperately trying to hold back his own, and said, “How can something so small bear this much pain? It chills me to the bone.”

He sat there in silence throughout the day, gazing out the window, shaking his head in disbelief. When life becomes burdensome, filled with heartaches through laboring days and sleepless nights, and when you find yourself sitting in darkness with a bleeding heart, the only solace is the faith in God above and the miraculous bond of family that He stitches together.

Suppose it weren’t for the bonds of family. In that case, we might as well be nothing more than inanimate stones scattered along the pathways of life—objects so easily overlooked that they are either kicked carelessly or completely ignored. My dad was the cornerstone that held our family together, his love enveloping us like a warm embrace, silent yet resonating in profoundly impactful ways. He embodied a quiet strength, choosing to express his affections through actions rather than words. His presence in our lives was a steady rock; he nurtured us with the kind of love that spoke volumes without ever needing to be vocalized.

I can still picture moments from my childhood where he interacted with my kids—the way his face lit up with a genuine smile, how his laughter rang out like a melody in the air. I often watched from a distance, a silent observer of these heartwarming exchanges, fully aware that he would have never let such uninhibited joy manifest if he realized I was nearby. It was as if he reserved those moments of exuberance for a time when the world could fade away, leaving only the pure essence of love and connection.

The reality of our existence is fleeting; this life feels like a mere precursor to something far more profound that lies beyond the veil of human comprehension. We understand this truth in the deepest corners of our minds, yet we allow our hearts to lead us astray, enveloping our thoughts in a haze of desire that obscures the clarity so desperately needed. We often find ourselves yearning for a fleeting euphoria, that blissful high that, akin to a passing cloud, is here for just a moment before vanishing into the ether.

Ironically, the more enchanting the world appears to be, the more it tends us to remain shackled, preventing our souls from basking in the illuminating light of truth. The seductive allure of worldly pleasures ensnares us, often blinding us to the deeper realities of existence. We grow accustomed to this cycle, a comfortable prison of our own making, where the patience and bravery required to escape elude us.

However, my father exemplified a different path; he was never a prisoner to weakness or superficial temptation. He lived life entirely on his terms, embodying a resilience and determination that was truly remarkable. With an unyielding spirit and an ironclad toughness, he carved out his existence in a way that few could ever achieve, leaving a legacy of strength and unwavering conviction that resonates deeply within me even now. His essence is a reminder that such fortitude and integrity are rare in this world, and I often wonder if we will ever witness someone of his caliber again.

However powerful words appear to be,
Their influence is confined to shadowed memories.
They calm the heart and provide some ease,
But they can never bring you back to me.

You left me, and I wasn’t by your side;
How could I have known the timing of your soul?
You tore my heart and left behind a hole
That filled with tears the night I cried.

The haunting memories of you appear.
They cloud my vision, and the tears start
To drain what’s left of my empty heart.
No hand to guide me, and my path feels unclear.

You left me when all I had was you;
Now I’m bewildered and cold as stone:
In a crowded house, I feel alone.
So I reflect and weep; that’s all I do.

All night I cry, but no one hears
Those prayers I utter as dawn breaks.
I surrender to the choices the High One makes,
I sleep with my eyes open, choking on my tears.

I miss so much your hugs and laughter.
I wander aimlessly, lost and without a clue.
Nobody is left to listen or turn for comfort to.
You left a lonely soul scarred forever after.

I often daydream, pretending you’re near;
In a pool of my tears, I sit and wait,
But not even imagination can penetrate
That magical and ever-so-distant frontier.

I call out, but you’re nowhere to be found.
I try to express my feelings, but I struggle to find
The perfect words in my transfixed mind;
The intervals of teardrops are the only sound.

My days are empty, my nights are cold,
And my willpower fades amidst my fears.
I gain nothing by waking, only more tears,
As I long in vain for what I can no longer hold.

When night falls and the crickets begin
To chirp near your chair where you sat all day,
I struggle to breathe and start to fade away,
And my heart shivers, dimpling my skin.

By dawn, I have cried a small puddle for you,
Where two happy birds come to bathe and dance.
They dip their beaks with joyful prance,
And then drink from the sorrowful brew.

Turning towards me with a brooding stare,
They grow silent with their beaks to the ground;
Then look to heaven, abated and spellbound,
And both flutter off in despair.

He left this world on August 12, 2011, just a week after I had celebrated my birthday—not just a day of joy for me, but a reminder of the fleeting nature of life. I often find myself regretting that I wasn’t at his side to hold his hand one last time, to whisper farewell and thank you, to express all the words I had left unspoken. How often do we overlook the importance of those we love while they are alive, assuming there will always be more time? We put off meaningful conversations until it feels too late, only to realize, with harsh clarity, that time is relentless and unyielding, mocking us with every tick of the clock. It reminds us that hope can vanish as easily as a rainbow after a storm, leaving behind only the raw ache of longing.

There are moments when I stand at the edge of the withered garden we once tended together and let my imagination take flight. I envision him there, kneeling on the soft earth, his hands lovingly planting tomato seedlings, a look of concentration mixed with joy gracing his face. Yet, in reality, I stand alone, weighed down by heartbreak and the absence of his reassuring presence. My heart feels like it has been shattered into a thousand fragments, while my mind cruelly toys with these memories, turning the sweetness of our shared moments into a bittersweet torment.

More often than not, I find myself daydreaming of that garden, recalling vibrant days when it was flourishing, alive with color and laughter. I sit here now, in a space tinged with sorrow, where I weep over my words, staring at the empty patches of soil. It’s hard not to think of the old pear tree that stood sentinel over our shared joys and struggles, its branches heavy with fruit in brighter times. Each night, I send out quiet prayers, hoping for a single glimpse of him in my dreams—a brief encounter that might offer solace. Yet, to this day, my dreams remain silent, my Father, The Gardener, absent from the landscape of my sleep, leaving me yearning for just one last moment with him.

CHAPTER 9 EPILOGUE

“Birdsong, wind, the water’s face.
Each flower, remembering the smell:
I know you’re close by.”
–Rumi

One hazy night on August 12, precisely one year after His poignant passing, an inexplicable anomaly unfolded around me. I found myself enveloped in a surreal atmosphere, perhaps drifting in a hypnagogic state of consciousness, where the veil between reality and dreams blurs. My heart felt as though it had plummeted to the very depths of despair, weighed down by the grief that seemed to stretch endlessly.

As I stood rooted to the sidewalk, both feet immovable as if encased in ice, my gaze was fixated on the familiar front porch. Memories danced in my mind, yet they only deepened the ache in my chest. I thought that surely, morning would come—bringing with it the light to dispel the daunting darkness that clung to me.

The sky above was an eerie void, devoid of stars; it felt as though the universe had purposely concealed its luminescent jewels. The moon, typically a companion in the night, was conspicuously absent, leaving me in a profound stillness that was both unsettling and strangely comforting.

There I stood, an unmoored soul adrift in an abyss of shadows, feeling the weight of an unseen presence that seemed to loom nearby. It was an inexplicable feeling as if something unexpected awaited me on that enchanted night, a moment that promised to stir up emotions and memories long buried. Not knowing what I will encounter that magical night as I…

…Stood half asleep on Memory Street,
A Persian cat appeared with two black feet.
She was searching for the hand that fed her,
But all she found was an empty seat.

Each night, like a worn-out song,
She came and purred on the lawn,
Sitting there, gazing at your empty chair,
Refusing to accept that you were gone.

On the porch, the gathered leaves
Blow about and crackle in the breeze.
I try to wake and come to my senses,
But my eyes are open, and my heart grieves.

The bluebird came and waited for you,
Sadly singing the whole day through.
It took one last look at your chair,
Cried one last time and then away it flew.

Fireflies came out and filled the air,
Circling around your empty chair.
My mind refuses to accept the fact
That years have passed since you sat there.

A silhouette appeared near the garage.
Was it my deceiving eyes? Was it a mirage?
Some dreams are cruel and vex the mind;
They taunt the heart and do not oblige.

Was this dream in earnest or jest?
Was it asking too much to be blessed
With one last vision of your smiling face
To ease a heart most cruelly oppressed?

I saw the beautiful garden as it used to be,
And your tall, blossoming pear tree.
Both were abundant and full of life.
If only the Gardener were here, if He could see!

And there beneath that old pear tree,
Two sisters reunite with bread and tea.
One broke a smile, the one I knew in my youth,
But the other appeared so far from me.

I couldn’t reach out to them or make a sound;
My feet were frozen in the ground.
But I somehow sensed the bloodline,
The love within was all around.

And all that I beheld with eye serene:
The garden and tree are all lush and green.
I know by morning the beauty will fade,
The likes of which will never be seen.

The pear tree still stands in my mind
And will forever flourish and remind
Us that those memories are all we have—
We, the seventy-plus “Pears” you left behind.

Life on Memory Street has undergone a profound transformation. Once vibrant and bustling with life, it now stands largely desolate, a shadow of its former self, especially in the wake of His departure. The laughter and chatter of friends and cousins, who used to visit every day just to spend time with Him, have faded into silence. I return home from work each night to find the familiar solitude of an empty porch, where His old chair sits forlornly in the twilight.

The air, once infused with the reassuring scent of his cigarette smoke and the delicate porcelain of his teacup, is now stark and still. I felt like a leafless tree surrounded by life trying to desperately attempt one last dance but is too frail and old. A tree that once housed bird nests and now no birds come to eulogize it. A tree that laughed and danced in the breeze, but no wind picked up to comfort it and offer it some hope. A tree that just stands there all dead inside, while all around is life and laughter. The only solace I found was under my pillow, where I would wrap up all my thoughts and sleep, and dream of what was, and nevermore shall be.

The End

“THE PEAR TREE”
By My Dad’s Youngest Son. 11/24/2021(WintryPoet)

©HABIB R DABAJEH