There she sits. Her silhouette a mere smudge on the horizon, the sun lazily rising, she calmly breathing in and out, ticking softly at her prayer beads while sipping at her shai, whenever I’d sit and remember this is what I’d conjure in my mind.


Worn leather her skin is. Such durable hands, so fragile, yet when she covers my face, me inhaling all that I can of her, that classic way her toub hung on to her, the way she’d chide and fail to hide her smile, purity would shy from her.

She carries an elegance that is not of this time. Carefully peeling at an orange, the fragrance springing and creeping, delicately tearing, feeding me each slice never bothering to help herself, wiping away at any escaped juices that hung to my chin with the end of her toub.

To her I’d run from all my grievances, from the upset sibling, to the annoyed uncle or aunt, raged parent, or revenge seeking cousin, I’d scurry and hide behind her, with a look she’d halt any transgression, and I’d peek from my haven poking out my tongue.

But still she would punish.

She’d punish me with a slight slap to the back of my hands that was never meant to harm, even when I knew behind that grim look hid a bubbling toothy smile, I’d cry and cry as if it were the most painful thing.

But she never paid mind, only, she’d gather me into her lap, dirtied, torn dress and all, never fussing or offering an apology. When finally my racking sobs would cease, she would hold me to her chest for a while, and I would grow so tired from drawing random designs on her toub that I’d finally sleep.

Many a times I’d come to her, howling from that bloodied knee, or that bruised pride, or that restlessness, or that perplexed mind, and though she gave me no vocal solution, her tender silence that never weighed but eased, that outspoken stare that never judged but released.

I often think of you.

Yuma let me bury my face into your orange fragranced hands, rest my head on your lap, let you smooth all those hairs that are in need of your subtle fingers to replace behind my ear. Please Yuma murmur into that same ear our ebbing language, remind me the words that you had taught me for I know I have not forgotten. Wrap me in the soft lilt of your voice, that worn toub that after all these years could never fade. Yuma I have so much, so much to say, I’ve been lost and am barely finding my way.

Though my legs would now dangle and scrape the floor from your lap, and your small frame would not be able to hold mine… Yuma let me sit at your feet, let me rest my forehead to your knee, let my hands play and draw tirelessly over your toubs design, let me breath today’s and yesterdays and the days before spices, let me be calmed with the melodious tapping of your prayer beads, let me be that second silhouette at your side, a witness, a devoted memory in your mind.

I miss you… do you miss me?