I love the walks to school on winter mornings. The crisp weather, the leisurely stride, the friendly banter between my daughters and their cousin. Sometimes they link arms with her—not with each other, to be sure—and sometimes they take quick steps, trying to outpace each other.
The puffy black jacket I bought a decade ago on another continent serves me well. Today, grey clouds loom above, but so far there is no rain. (It doesn’t take long for the streets to fill with water when it does rain, and then the walk turns into a delicate crisscrossing dance.)
We’re approaching the school gate now. “Anyone want to hug and kiss me in public?” I quip. The girls politely decline, but they do say salam and “I love you.” I stand until they pass through the doors; both of them look at me and wave.
I turn back, and soon I’m crossing a one-way road; I live in Egypt, so I look both ways.
My way back is contemplative. I study all the greenery on my path—trees and bushes of various shapes and sizes. Some leaves are fragile and thin; others are thick and broad. My eyes linger on a dark green bush peppered with tiny pink and yellow flowers. A few palm trees tower above me; when I look up at them, I see tiny birds hopping from leaf to leaf.
There is so much to see, so much I don’t know—so many creatures sustained by Him without our knowledge or intervention.
The puffy black jacket I bought a decade ago on another continent serves me well. Today, grey clouds loom above, but so far there is no rain. (It doesn’t take long for the streets to fill with water when it does rain, and then the walk turns into a delicate crisscrossing dance.)
We’re approaching the school gate now. “Anyone want to hug and kiss me in public?” I quip. The girls politely decline, but they do say salam and “I love you.” I stand until they pass through the doors; both of them look at me and wave.
I turn back, and soon I’m crossing a one-way road; I live in Egypt, so I look both ways.
My way back is contemplative. I study all the greenery on my path—trees and bushes of various shapes and sizes. Some leaves are fragile and thin; others are thick and broad. My eyes linger on a dark green bush peppered with tiny pink and yellow flowers. A few palm trees tower above me; when I look up at them, I see tiny birds hopping from leaf to leaf.
There is so much to see, so much I don’t know—so many creatures sustained by Him without our knowledge or intervention.
Fleeting thoughts of loved ones oceans away pass through my mind, each of them carrying joys and griefs unknown to me. I turn my attention back to here and now, where every moment is a gift. There is always something to notice and appreciate.
I catch a glance of the white-haired man in the grey galabiyya who always sits on the curb. I wonder—as I often do—what his story is and whether he’s really in need. I make the mistake of looking again, and our eyes lock. I quickly look away and pass by without a word, imagining that his gaze carried reproach.
I’m almost home now.
I marvel at a bush pushing through a metallic fence—more of it is outside than inside—and some doves walking with their strange horizontal head-bobs. Their colour always puzzles me; they’re mostly grey but with a subdued orange around their neck that moves seamlessly into and out of the grey.
Near the sidewalk, I study a tree with small mottled leaves, mostly yellow. I imagine, impossibly, that the green has been bleached away by the sun or stripped away by strong winds.
The doorman of the building next to ours is wiping down the cars parked out front; I say salam. I pass my favourite tree, the one that keeps growing regardless of the callous haircuts it gets a few times a year. Sometimes I stroke one of its broad leaves—thick, dark, and shiny—and whisper, “How are you, Beautiful?” But not today.
I take those last few steps down the walkway. In the garden to my right, several stray cats look at me expectantly. One is busy licking its fur.
I unlock the iron door, ascend in the small elevator, and wipe my feet at the rough carpet by my door. Once I enter my apartment, I’m plunged into darkness. I walk through the living room and throw open the curtains to let some of the sunlight in.
I catch a glance of the white-haired man in the grey galabiyya who always sits on the curb. I wonder—as I often do—what his story is and whether he’s really in need. I make the mistake of looking again, and our eyes lock. I quickly look away and pass by without a word, imagining that his gaze carried reproach.
I’m almost home now.
I marvel at a bush pushing through a metallic fence—more of it is outside than inside—and some doves walking with their strange horizontal head-bobs. Their colour always puzzles me; they’re mostly grey but with a subdued orange around their neck that moves seamlessly into and out of the grey.
Near the sidewalk, I study a tree with small mottled leaves, mostly yellow. I imagine, impossibly, that the green has been bleached away by the sun or stripped away by strong winds.
The doorman of the building next to ours is wiping down the cars parked out front; I say salam. I pass my favourite tree, the one that keeps growing regardless of the callous haircuts it gets a few times a year. Sometimes I stroke one of its broad leaves—thick, dark, and shiny—and whisper, “How are you, Beautiful?” But not today.
I take those last few steps down the walkway. In the garden to my right, several stray cats look at me expectantly. One is busy licking its fur.
I unlock the iron door, ascend in the small elevator, and wipe my feet at the rough carpet by my door. Once I enter my apartment, I’m plunged into darkness. I walk through the living room and throw open the curtains to let some of the sunlight in.
Comments
Post a Comment