In her last letter my mother was saying,I went to the old house in Kadik
y yesterday.The lock of the garden gate was rusty-- must have been from all the rains --One can't question God's blessings.A new neighbor leaned out of the window across the way:"They've been away for years," she said.The key became colder in my hand,Are the shutters cross with us,The first time in forty-five years?The green gage plum tree is all dried up
But the jujube tree is still there.Remember when we sacrificed a sheep under it;As the blood gushed from the struggling creature,You cried "There can't be a Celebration for the sacrificed!"Those who told us it was sinful to look at the sunhad to renew their ablutions for prayers.-- Now I understand you very well --Yet when your father's Mevlud prayers were recited downstairsYou too joined in "Allah h
mme salli alâ"Like the cooing of the pigeons far fromthe ablution fountain,their withered hearts were calmed.You may not believe me:You know how much I loathed the spiders,But when I entered the house todayI liked them --On the walls with cracks bleeding inwards.After so many weddings, so many coffinsThere is still some life left even if it is unsightly.Smiles cannot last foreverLike the roses that bloom in all seasons --I am grateful even for this much.