Last night it poured in Atlanta. In my dream I woke up and looked out my window and saw my car had been picked up by the stormy wind and dropped in the tiny area between my bedroom window and the fence outside it. The windows, even the windshield were shattered. I went outside to examine the damage. I held my face in my hands and cried, this problem seemed insurmountable.
I walked down the street away from my house because I couldn't take it. I walked and walked, away from Grant Park, away from Atlanta and the rain, through neighborhoods of grand houses lit up by the sun. One house caught my attention and I thought to myself, this is the house that will take me to Mohammad. He can fix this mess. I walked up the steps and pushed gently in the door, expecting it to be locked. To my surprise it swung open, moved by Mohammad himself. He beamed when he saw me. He held a plate of food in his hand and I could see there was a party behind him- it was Eid al-Fitr.
His smile was so big and his hands so familiar as he led me inside. The house was open air and luscious plants hung above us, it looked more Italian than Arab. We sat on a bench, as close to each other as physically possible, our backs leaning on a picnic table behind us and his arm around my shoulder. "Good to see you," he whispered in my ear. I tried unsuccessfully to keep my tears from spilling and said "I can't believe teleporation really works." He nodded and kissed my cheek, knowing that this has been my number one wish in the world since I was a child and my grandmother lived across an ocean.
He walked off to get me some food and I looked around, taking in my surroundings for the first time. I saw that I was sitting with the men, and that the women were all sitting together at the other end of the piazza. I felt self-conscious in my gauzy tank top. I glanced over my shoulder to see who was at the picnic table I sat at and looked straight into the eyes of Mohammad's father, a lovely man I only know from pictures and his son's stories. He left this world on April 13 this year. His eyes were tender and watery like my grandfather's, and he smiled warmly as he looked me over. I shyly smiled back.
Mohammad returned to me with a plate of maklube. We ate it together and kissed; every bite and kiss was salty from my tears. I woke up to the sound of pouring rain...
washed away, a dream of you
but nothing else could ever take you away
cuz you'll always be my dream come true
I guess sometimes this is a blog of hopes and dreams.
Bourbon Barrel Series - Rochester Mills - My wife picked up this 4 pack of a limited-release bourbon barrel aged versions of some of the standard beers from Rochester Mills in Auburn Hills, MI. Sh...