I can’t tell you how excited I am to have my work included in the empowering collection Jennifer Pastilloff has put together on The Manifest-Station. The voices there are compelling, brave and unerringly honest. To have my work accepted is a BFG (big freakin’ deal), especially considering this letter is a list–a form not often selected. It is incredibly rewarding to find my piece in such a far-reaching forum. I hope you’ll hop on over and read. “The Letter No One Wrote My Mother” is the piece that brought me
There is something I want you to know. It is about the way I live my life since your embrace. It is the way you live in my life even after you pass, and until we meet again. In the Spring, I sit with my windows open so I can feel a connection to the world. It’s not like Kayfoun here. There is no direct connection to the land. No one lives in a flat above me. No laundry hangs outside. But I’ve come up with a way to counteract
The last few days have been a whirlwind of excitement for me with regards to writing. I have dreamt of growing my career as a writer and teacher for the last ten years. Children and illness paused that growth, but I never let go of the dream. My family recently took a seven state, seven day vacation. My husband prefers to do the driving, which left me free to absorb the visual wonder of this country as we passed through. It is probably good that I drove little. We travelled south.
My father, throughout my life, has clung to small food rituals. Here is how you spread the labneh on the pocket bread. Here is how you open the pocket bread. Now the olives. Now the tomatoes. Now the salt and pepper. Here, now. Here. This is how you drizzle the oil. Then we roll it. Then we eat it and, ahhh. Call me Baba, he would tell me when I called him Dad. It was not a food ritual, but he asked more than once. It feels weird, I would tell
My father’s father, “Jido” to me, was a man of integrity and great character. When he is remembered, it is with love and admiration. He lived with my family in the United States for a time. We were in Oklahoma. I was three and four, and my younger sister was just born. Jido along with my father’s mother, Tayta, and my aunt Ghada, were layers in our household. Perhaps it is rare, but I wonder if this is not true for everyone: I had a person in my life who