My grandmother once told me about how she first met the love of her life. She said it was on one spring day, the sun was shining and there was a soft breeze that made her scarf show strings of her long black hair. She was out picking olives with the rest of the women of the village, humming songs of Turath (traditional Palestinian songs). She told me she caught a glimpse of him first, a tall handsome youth wearing his Kufyeh and a white tshirt, with a face so red it was so close to tomato you could practically put it on a salad, she said that giggling and I knew how much she wanted that moment to come back. He saw her and asked her what her name was, being the traditional Arab woman she is she didn’t give it. He followed her home and called on her dad that same afternoon. They soon got married and my Teta gave birth to 10 kids. Her name was Wadha, she lived well into her 90s but I never for once felt how old she truly is, she framed my life and showed me pieces of heaven in the smallest of details. For the most part, I always pictured Teta to be immortal. It only hit one night at her place, we were so bored and she kept asking me to make her some tea, being the lazy ass I am, I kept delaying her request until I had the idea of having it outside in her garden, she immediately agreed. I think it was 10 PM and I remember her yawning the entire time, I wish I could show you how majestic she looked with her golden shawl on her head , sipping tea and laughing at how cold we were. I wanted to save that memory so bad, the only thing I could think of was taking a picture with my phone, which I’m so grateful I did.
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