Siddi (my father’s father) has been staying with us for a while. He is very old and sometimes smells of going to the bathroom, but he tells us stories and pats our heads and sometimes gives us candies. He even says nice things to Baba for us, but it takes him some time to get the words out, and by then, my father loses his patience.

Once I heard my mother tell Monia that she thought Baba might be crazy because of all the things he did, but especially because he didn’t respect his father properly.

That evening my father started talking about the sand that filled his dreams again. “How could you not be a little crazy when you have watched your dreams be buried the way I have?” he asked, as if he had heard my mother’s conversation.

I miss my mother so much. Hamouda is crying a lot, even though Maysoun is over here all the time trying to help. The house feels vacant and Baba is too quiet, scary quiet. I want to call Sitti and tell her that I am sorry I never met her, but Baba won’t let me stay on the phone, “And she wouldn’t understand you anyway.”

32 HALA Old Men

32HALAOld Men

A week and a half in Irbid and I feel I have slept a month and awoken with clear eyes. I have been back two days and am already twisting in Sharif’s Fiat through Jerash for lunch. Selim’s Restaurant. Fig trees hovering above. Dip your toes in the water as you eat. A place for lovers. A place for beauty.

I am very happy today. I love to drive in the car and put my hand out the window to catch the breezes. I know Sharif smiles at me in the rearview mirror when I do this, and I do not feel ashamed, though I do wonder what my father would think.

Sharif drops Latifa off at Jalal’s (a minute away by car), but I do not feel like spending an afternoon with them, so I go home and find an empty house. Naguib Mahfouz comes with me to the tiny room off the kitchen. I am full with food and very sleepy. My book is very heavy. Silence is my blanket as I close my eyes and doze. So much to think about.

Then voices. My father thinks we are all gone. How long has he been home? There is another man with him and they are drinking beer, though it is still early in the afternoon. Voices and sounds and words I should not be hearing.

“Abu Mustafa,” my father says, “I am a failure.” I hear a click and I know I will soon smell his heavy cigarettes.

“Come now, Abu Jalal. You are being so dramatic and you have only had one beer. What is wrong?”