Black Windows

They packed our bags into the van. In the driver’s seat sat my grandfather's friend - maybe a college friend, war time buddy, perhaps a distant cousin. 

My sister and I entered the back first, and my mother occupied the middle seat. We looked back at our grandparents. The ones that still pray every night that our true ‘native’ language will manifest into fluency. For now they look solemn, watching both their daughter and grandchildren whittle away as August ends. 

Habit does not make these moments any easier. The arrival only reminds one of the bitter end in sight. A stab wound inflicted year and year again with no salve to soothe their empty arms. 

Like every past drive, this one was no different. My sister played her music in her airpods. I played mine. We both occupied different sides of the car, looking down the hills towards the sea. This was our pilgrimage. This journey to the airport, the passage we made countless times to Beirut, to Saida, to a wedding, to the hospital, to cousins in the northern mountains.

I looked over and found a lonesome house in the middle of a field of hills. It sat, white and chiseled till smothered flat. Reflecting all things shiny and bright. It was so far away it appeared to be vacant. Black windows on all sides. No light, no signs of life. It was just a house on the hill with no one home. And I was just a girl in a van on her way back to one.

I pray, which is unlike me.

 I pray that these memories etch into me like a knife on a tree. Its sharp tongue piercing these moments

into words against the stiff bark. The tree's skin cries for release. Then it stops. Silence ensues as the tree recovers. All for the knife to snake its way back in for more. 

Repeatedly,

It etches the memories of heartache only for the subtle relief of having made and recorded them. Memories cyclical movement of heartache and recovery.