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work in progress poem
The sand grains scattered across my ancestors’ land, My right foot softly touches the warm, shifting grains. The wind gently brushes my skin, singing the ancient tones of my people. The sun danced above us, playfully scorching my long-untouched brown skin, As if teasing me for having been away from its intense embrace for too long.
In the distance, I spotted a bright orange taxi, so I whistled to it, and it slowly made its way toward me. The driver, with sorrowful eyes, asked, “Where do you seek to go?” I replied, “To the old town of Silwad, which I once knew as home.”
We arrived at the roundabout, where the road gently sloped, leading to my aunt's house and my late grandmother's home. Memories of those early mornings come rushing back. As a child, I’d be awakened by the chorus of birds at sunrise, their songs filling the air as the first light touched the world. I would wander outside, the grass still wet with dew, and often find my grandmother in the yard, struggling with a tree she had cut down.
She was strong, even in her old age, but the weight of the fallen trunk was too much for her alone. Without a word, I would rush to help, my small hands doing what they could to carry the burden with her. Together, we would drag it to the house, the morning sun warming our backs. Once the work was done, she would press a coin into my hand—a small, worn piece of metal that always made me smile. It wasn’t much, but to me, it was a treasure. I’d clutch it tightly, feeling a sense of pride in helping her, and I’d tuck it safely away like a keepsake of those moments we shared.
Looking back, it wasn't the coin that mattered. It was the time spent with her, the lessons in hard work, and the quiet love we exchanged in those early hours of the day. Now, when I pass that road, I still see her there, strong and determined, and I feel the warmth of those mornings in my heart.
Her house sat next to the mosque, connected by walls that enclosed it. The metal door, weathered and degraded, was the entrance to her home. Upon entering, another door led to the interior, filled with love. To the right, nestled between the walls, was a stone fountain where the birds...
In the distance, I spotted a bright orange taxi, so I whistled to it, and it slowly made its way toward me. The driver, with sorrowful eyes, asked, “Where do you seek to go?” I replied, “To the old town of Silwad, which I once knew as home.”
We arrived at the roundabout, where the road gently sloped, leading to my aunt's house and my late grandmother's home. Memories of those early mornings come rushing back. As a child, I’d be awakened by the chorus of birds at sunrise, their songs filling the air as the first light touched the world. I would wander outside, the grass still wet with dew, and often find my grandmother in the yard, struggling with a tree she had cut down.
She was strong, even in her old age, but the weight of the fallen trunk was too much for her alone. Without a word, I would rush to help, my small hands doing what they could to carry the burden with her. Together, we would drag it to the house, the morning sun warming our backs. Once the work was done, she would press a coin into my hand—a small, worn piece of metal that always made me smile. It wasn’t much, but to me, it was a treasure. I’d clutch it tightly, feeling a sense of pride in helping her, and I’d tuck it safely away like a keepsake of those moments we shared.
Looking back, it wasn't the coin that mattered. It was the time spent with her, the lessons in hard work, and the quiet love we exchanged in those early hours of the day. Now, when I pass that road, I still see her there, strong and determined, and I feel the warmth of those mornings in my heart.
Her house sat next to the mosque, connected by walls that enclosed it. The metal door, weathered and degraded, was the entrance to her home. Upon entering, another door led to the interior, filled with love. To the right, nestled between the walls, was a stone fountain where the birds...
