MY BROTHER’S CLOSET

MY BROTHER’S CLOSET

The house on Morross Street wasn’t grand, not in the way the sprawling mansions of West Bloomfield were, but it held a kind of quiet dignity, a resilience that mirrored the immigrant family who called it home. It was where the aroma of my mother’s spiced lentils mingled with the rhythmic thump of my father’s prayers, where the sun, filtered through the dusty blinds, and called out the kids to play. My earliest memories were a clamor of Dearborn sounds: the rumble of cars on my street, the rhythmic chanting of Abdel Halim and Elvis Presley from Mahmoud’s cassette player, and waking up each morning to the comforting realization that school was out for the summer.

My fondest memories of my early youth were the trips I took with my brother, Mahmoud through Northern Michigan and Niagara Falls. They were more than just vacations; they were the forging of my wandering soul. My brother was my first guide to the wild. He introduced me to the intoxicating perfume of the wilderness on a summer breeze in Michigan, where the hushed reverence of a starlit sky was untainted by city lights. It was on a particularly long drive on the 401 through Canada that the seed of my wandering spirit was truly planted. Mahmoud, his eyes fixed on the endless asphalt, said, “You know, Habib, the world is a big place. Bigger than our little town. You should see it all.” Those words had cemented an ambition, and I felt a kinship with the relentless force of nature. I wanted to explore, to discover, to be swept away by the current of life. In the later years, I would find myself somewhere far from the safety of my home. One week I was knee-deep in the waters of the Atlantic off Cape Cod. Other days, I was in Wyoming gazing at the Devil’s Tower. I became a nomad, hopping from place to place, and as long as I had a full tank of gas, I was happy.

Then came the day that changed everything and overshadowed all, like a whispered secret. It was the allure of my brother’s closet. For me, that house, with its chipped paint and creaky stairs, was the center of my universe. And within that universe, a particular closet was the brightest star. And it was where I discovered the magic nestled within the dusty confines of that magical place. It was Mahmoud’s sanctuary, a treasure chest holding not gold, but the more precious currency of words. It was where my brother, unknowingly, ignited the inferno of words that now consumed me.

The closet was outside my parents’ bedroom, near the door. It wasn’t a typical clothes closet; it was a tiny library, a treasure trove. Mahmoud rarely visited it, which only heightened its mystique in my eyes. It was a place of hushed whispers, where my imagination could run rampant. It had a perpetually loose latch, allowing me, a small, curious child, to sneak in whenever the coast was clear.

Mahmoud was everything I wasn’t, a constellation of calm in our boisterous family of ten. He was tall, with shoulders that seemed built to carry the weight of the world. His voice resonated with a quiet strength, and his eyes held stories within stories. He was my protector, my guide, and, ultimately, the architect of my literary destiny. While the rest of the siblings clamored for the newest disco 8-track or gossiped about the bustling city life, Mahmoud retreated to his corner, his nose buried in a book. He was a quiet enigma, and I, a perpetually curious child, was drawn to him like a moth to a flickering flame. I was a restless soul, always adrift in the sea of my thoughts, yearning for an outlet that was beyond the confines of our small, overcrowded house. One rainy afternoon, while boredom nibbled at my edges, I ventured into Mahmoud’s territory. The closet was dark and smelled of old paper and worn leather bindings. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with countless volumes. They weren’t the bright, colorful picture books I usually read. They were filled with dense text, bound in worn leather or faded paper. It was a different kind of magic altogether.

I ran my small fingers along the spines of the books, each title a cryptic invitation. ‘Khalil Gibran,’ ‘Henry Longfellow,’ ‘Walt Whitman.’ They were foreign, these names, yet they hummed with a silent power. I pulled a thin volume with a worn brown cover, its pages yellowed and brittle. I turned to Longfellow’s A Psalm of Life, and the words swam before my eyes, a strange and beautiful language I couldn’t quite grasp but that resonated deep within me–

“Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time…”

The words were strange, almost musical. The words spoke to my heart, and I imagined a world beyond the concrete streets of Dearborn. It was a different language, a language that wove itself around my heart and demanded to be understood. I spent hours that day, and many more after, immersed in Mahmoud’s collection. I devoured the stories, the poems, the essays, each word a tiny key unlocking doors to new perspectives. I discovered William Blake, John Keats, and Lord Byron. These writers became my secret companions, whispering their wisdom into my young heart.

I spent the rest of the afternoon there, lost in the pages of Gibran, and then another collection of poems by Longfellow, and then a creepy volume of short stories by Edgar Allan Poe. I didn’t understand everything, not by a long shot. Some of the words were too big, the concepts too complex. But there was something else, something that transcended comprehension. There was a rhythm, a raw emotion, that seeped into my soul. It was like discovering a hidden world, a world where words could evoke feelings, where stories could transport you to other times and other places. It was a world that existed beyond the familiar walls of our house on Morross Street. I’d sit on the dusty floor, legs crossed, a world away from the mundane sounds of the house, and become lost in tales of faraway lands, of love and loss, of courage and despair. I started to copy down the poems in my small notebook, the clumsy handwriting a stark contrast to the elegant prose. I would try to mimic the stories I read, creating my narratives in my head, imagining myself as a valiant knight or a wise old sage. The quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the distant traffic, everything faded into a muted background as my imagination took flight.

Sometimes, Mahmoud would find me there, huddled among the shelves, a book clutched tightly in my hand. He’d stand in the doorway, his expression unreadable. He never scolded me, never told me to leave. He’d just observe me for a moment, a flicker of something, maybe recognition, in his eyes before he’d turn and leave me alone to read. That same day, I was buried in some tattered textbook, wrestling with the intricacies of ancient history, when Mahmoud appeared in the doorway, a book clutched in his calloused hand.

“Habib,” he said, his voice unusually solemn. “I want you to read this.”

“What is it?” I asked, turning the book over in my hands.

“Just read it,” Mahmoud replied, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “Read it, and tell me what you think.”

He simply placed it in front of me and retreated to his work. The book was slightly faded and worn. The Broken Wings, by Khalil Gibran. I hesitated, but the intensity in his eyes convinced me. I opened the book, and the world around me began to dissolve. I opened the brittle pages and began to read. And reading it was like stepping into a different world. Gibran’s words were like nothing I had ever encountered. They were raw, passionate, and filled with a longing that resonated deep within my soul. The story of Selma Karamy and the unnamed narrator, their forbidden love, their shared pain, and their desperate search for beauty in a world shrouded in darkness – captivated me. I read for hours, losing myself in the lyrical prose, the haunting imagery. The house on Morross Street faded into the background, replaced by the fragrant gardens of Lebanon, the whispers of ancient cedars, and the silent sorrow of broken hearts. When I finally finished, the book slipped from my numb fingers. I looked up, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. The world seemed different, somehow. Sharper, more vibrant, but also tinged with a profound sadness.

Mahmoud was watching me, his eyes piercing right through me.

“Well?” he asked softly. “What do you think?”

I couldn’t find the words to express the turmoil raging within me. It was as if a dam had broken inside, unleashing a torrent of emotions I never knew existed.

“It’s… beautiful,” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. “But it’s also… sad. So sad.”

He stood behind me quietly and just watched me thumb through pages, his eyes holding a quiet contemplation that I could not yet decipher.

“Do you understand it, Habib?” he finally asked.

I looked up, my brow furrowed. “Some of it,” I admitted. “The words feel different. So powerful and gut-wrenching. So sad Selma had to die.”

He smiled then and moved in closer. “Words are powerful,” he said. “They are more than just words. They are feelings, ideas, dreams, and heartaches brought to life by beauty and sadness.”

Gibran’s language, at once lyrical and piercing, resonated with a part of me I didn’t even know existed. The beauty he found in sorrow, the profound ache of longing, the delicate dance of love and loss – it all felt overwhelmingly familiar, like threads of a tapestry I had always carried within me. I read it again and again, the words sinking into my soul like rain into the parched earth. I started noticing the nuances of language, the way a simple phrase could evoke a universe of emotion. The rhythm of the prose began to hum within me, a silent melody begging to be released. It wasn’t immediate. It was a slow, unfolding process. I started keeping a notebook, scribbling down observations, fleeting thoughts, the way the light caught the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun, and the mournful cry of a lone bird overhead. These weren’t just observations anymore; they were seeds, germinating within the fertile ground of my imagination. Gradually, these scribbles began to form into something more, something that resonated with the echo of Gibran’s voice, something that felt mine. I never fully fathomed what Mahmoud thought of me poring over his books. But I think he understood. Maybe he saw the same spark of curiosity in me that he felt within himself. Either way, his silent acceptance allowed me to continue my exploration. That was the moment. The moment the seed was planted. The moment the world transformed from a place of simple routines and predictable patterns into a canvas of endless possibilities. From that day forward, I was a changed boy. The bikes in the garage remained untouched, gathering rust. My attention was now consumed by words, by the power and potential they held. I devoured every book I could get my hands on – poetry, novels, plays, anything that promised to unlock the secrets of the human heart.

I started writing myself, scribbling verses on scraps of paper, and filling notebooks with half-formed ideas and fleeting emotions. The words poured out of me, a chaotic jumble of images and feelings that I struggled to control. I became a madman possessed by words. I saw poetry in everything – in the rustling leaves of the plum tree in the garden, in the mournful cry of the stray cat that roamed the streets. I saw stories waiting to be told, waiting to be brought to life on the page. Mahmoud watched my transformation with a mixture of amusement and pride. He encouraged me, offering gentle criticism and unwavering support. He understood, somehow, the fire that burned within me. The house on Morross Street became my sanctuary, a place where I could escape the world and immerse myself in the realm of imagination. I would spend hours locked in my room, poring over books, writing and rewriting lines, striving to capture the essence of a feeling, the beauty of a moment. My brother introduced me to the concept of a world of words meant for adults, showing me how language could be molded and shaped, just like clay. He brought out his old notebooks, filled with his attempts at poetry, some clumsy and hesitant, others soaring, full of melancholic beauty. He even let me read them, sharing with me a part of himself he had kept hidden for so long.

“Words can be sharp,” he told me one day, tracing the edge of a page. “They can be used to wound, to manipulate. But they can also heal, they can inspire, they can build bridges between people and between worlds.”

My obsession with poetry didn’t always make me the easiest person to be around. I was often lost in my world, oblivious to the needs and concerns of others. I neglected my chores, forgot appointments, and became increasingly withdrawn. There were times when Mahmoud grew concerned. He saw the toll my passion was taking on me, the way it was isolating me from the world. He tried to gently steer me back towards reality, reminding me of my responsibilities, urging me to connect with others. But the words had taken root, and I couldn’t stop them from growing. They were an essential part of me, as vital as breath, as necessary as blood.

My early writing attempts were awkward, clumsy imitations of the authors I admired. I was just writing to rhyme words without meaning, but Mahmoud never ridiculed me. Instead, he would gently guide me, pointing out the areas where I could improve, and offering subtle suggestions that helped me find my voice. I knew, in the quiet moments we shared near the closet, surrounded by the ghosts of authors’ past, that he cared. He cared enough to invest his time, his knowledge, and his passion in me. He believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.

The world outside the house on Morross Street went on: the politics of the Middle East, the daily struggles of our family, the ever-present hum of the city. But within the walls of that small closet, a different world unfolded, a world woven from the threads of imagination, a world where anything was possible. My brother’s guidance didn’t just open my mind to literature; it taught me the power of language, the importance of empathy, and the beauty of self-expression. It shaped my understanding of the world, and it shaped me.

As I got older, I would drive to Hines Park after midnight park my car, and read and write. I’d spend hours there in the solitude of complete darkness, and jot down my thoughts. One night as I was heading back home, I passed by his house and noticed the basement lights on. It was late and he was repairing a washer or dryer in the dead of the night. I gently tapped on the basement and startled him. He looked surprised to see me and quickly guessed I was out on Hines again. I even dared to show my poems to Mahmoud, my heart pounding in my chest with a mix of fear and anticipation. He didn’t say much. He just read them in silence, his brow furrowed. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he looked up and said, “Keep writing. The more you write, the better you become.” As his words echoed in my ears, it was the validation I needed to pursue my dreams. Mahmoud, of course, never knew the impact he had. I was slowly crafting my own words, weaving together emotions, and experiences into the fragile beauty of poems. He’d see me with my notebook, sometimes, a slight, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It was a world he built, in part, from the foundations he had unwittingly provided. The Broken Wings wasn’t just my first book; it was a portal, a catalyst. It was the quiet, unspoken nudge that propelled me into the realm of poetry, a world where I could finally voice the yearnings of my heart. Years have passed since then. But every time I sit down to write, I see that faded book, and I think of my brother. He gave me the key, the silent, unassuming gift that unlocked the poet within. And he, unknowingly, helped me build with words. And for that, I will always be grateful.

The seeds that were planted in that closet on Morross Street had taken root, and I was determined to see them reach the sky. And so, armed with words, and emboldened by the stories that had shaped me, I stepped out into the world, ready to share them with anyone who would listen. The house on Morross Street, where it all began for me, will always hold a special place in my heart, the place where a young boy first stumbled upon the magic of words, and embarked on a journey that would transform my life forever. It was in the old worn books in Mahmoud’s closet, amidst the scent of aged paper and whispered poems, that I truly began to understand the bright future I could build for myself. He didn’t just give me a love for books; he gave me the tools, the courage, and the conviction to become a storyteller myself, a weaver of words, just like the authors we both so admired. And all of that, I knew, started with discovering the magic hidden within the confines of my brother’s closet. The house on Morross Street may have been humble, but within its walls, a poet had been born.

The seed that Mahmoud had planted in my heart had blossomed into a full-grown tree, its roots firmly planted in the soil of Morross Street. I am still a madman possessed by words, by the gratitude for the brother who showed me the beauty and the pain of the world. And every time I write, I recall how it all started for me. I’m grateful for the architect of my literary destiny, the man who gave me the gift of poetry. The words, the stories, the memories – they will live on, forever etched in the ink of my soul.

As I reach for my notebook, a stream of thoughts flows through my mind. The story I was about to write, I knew, would bear the invisible imprint of a brother’s quiet, unexpected gift that molded a singing heart. And that, perhaps, was the greatest poem of all.