“May God brighten your days and clear your path of wickedness, my daughter. You always check on me. May God’s angels always check on you. Amen,” Hajjeh Um Mhammad would say.

A couple of days after Bilal’s homecoming, Hajjeh Um Mhammad collapsed in the kitchen. The doctor said it was exhaustion, probably a combination of excitement over Bilal’s homecoming and preparations for the harvest in the coming week. Age had stolen her strength and agility and she hadn’t been able to do as much as she used to at harvest, but there was no way she would miss it again, especially with Bilal home, though the doctor had ordered her to rest.

The evening before the big day, Jumana and I prepared salads and mezze dishes to take to the groves. Hajjeh Um Mhammad and her friends kneaded dough to make fresh khobz bread, which they would bake outdoors on a hot taboon. We started the first day of harvest early, packing for a long day, and began hiking to the groves before the sun made it over land. I even carried a basket on my head as the elders did, and as I imagined my ancestors had done.

Although Hajjeh Um Mhammad could not walk well, she had always insisted on making this annual trek to the olive groves. This year she relented and allowed Bilal to drive her to the top of the hill, where she could walk a short distance to join the elder kinfolk and friends gathered to sort the olives, bake bread, and prepare food. The women who managed to balance a load atop their heads and converse with one another while simultaneously walking the steep, rocky paths, sometimes carrying a child too, were a marvel to behold. I struggled to keep the basket from falling off my head, holding it in place with one arm. Then I had to use both arms, which provoked some children (and adults) to laughter.

“Accept who you are, city girl,” Faisal teased. “We’re taking bets when and where the basket is going to fall.” Wadee laughed, and so did the children.

“Whose side are you on, Jumana?”

“Well, ordinarily I’d be on a sister’s side. But there’s a prize involved. I have to go with the safe bet that the basket is going to fall off your head before you reach the trees.”

“And if I make it? Will I get the prize?” I asked.

“Nope. This one here gets it. She’s betting you’re going to make it just fine,” Jumana said, pointing to a little girl of nine or ten. Her name was Amna, a relative of Bilal’s.

“Come here, beautiful Amna,” I said. “You’re my only true friend. We’ll show them, won’t we?”

“Yeah.” The little girl looked up at me, smiling sweetly.