Illustration by Jaimee Lee Haddad
I left you on my desk, with a stack of papers and an empty coffee cup, on that quiet morning of Sept. 23. The house was still — save for the clucking of the chickens and ducks in the yard. The cats were sprawled in their usual spots, basking in the sun that filtered through the trees. The orchard hummed with life: the steady rustle of olive branches in the breeze, the faint scent of ripening mangoes and passion fruit, the soft sound of water trickling from the irrigation hose my father had installed.That morning, before the world shifted, my dad and I walked in the garden. The pomegranate tree stood heavy with fruit — more than we could count. We marveled at it, laughing at how bountiful this year’s harvest would be. We began to sing Fairouz’s “Bint al-Shalabiya,” our voices weaving through the stillness: "Taht el remani, hebbi hakani"...
I left you on my desk, with a stack of papers and an empty coffee cup, on that quiet morning of Sept. 23. The house was still — save for the clucking of the chickens and ducks in the yard. The cats were sprawled in their usual spots, basking in the sun that filtered through the trees. The orchard hummed with life: the steady rustle of olive branches in the breeze, the faint scent of ripening mangoes and passion fruit, the soft sound of water trickling from the irrigation hose my father had installed.That morning, before the world shifted, my dad and I walked in the garden. The pomegranate tree stood heavy with fruit — more than we could count. We marveled at it, laughing at how bountiful this year’s harvest would be. We began to sing Fairouz’s “Bint al-Shalabiya,” our voices weaving through the stillness: "Taht el remani,...
