He goes on and on about Italy and France and Greece and we listen. He tells jokes that are as silly as they were fifteen years ago, but Latifa and I laugh anyway. When we finish eating, we walk through the castle.

“This way, this way,” Sharif says as we pass tourists. Up and up and up and we reach the highest part of the castle, which looks out over a small valley. We sit there silently for what seems like a very long time, legs dangling over the edge and a story here and there to fill our ears. It is like sitting with the oldest friends in the world, no words are necessary, but when they come, they are most welcome. For the first time since I have been back, I feel at peace.

With this day, a new chapter in my life begins, a new beginning after my grandmother’s death. Sharif comes over every day to take us somewhere: to the souq, the mall, visiting friends or relatives, to Jerash, to Ajlun, wherever our hearts desire. Latifa likes Jerash. Ajlun is my favorite. This is the perfect way to come home and taste it all over again. Even though I feel I don’t know enough about him, Sharif makes me laugh, often uncontrollably, like the time when we were at a stoplight in Amman—I was in the front seat for once—and a boy on the median was selling gum. He leaned very close to the car and said, “Gum for your daughter?” Sharif looked at me, then looked back at the boy and said, “No thank you. It would be torture for her. You see, she doesn’t have any teeth.”

Each morning I take my time getting dressed, something I never paid much attention to before. I have become self-conscious, not in a pretty/ugly way, just aware of myself and my body. I notice everything, and not just in me. Colors are sharper. All sensations are exaggerated. Food is delicious or vile. Sights are magnificent or hideous. Smells are divine or nauseating. I cannot explain what is happening to me. Sharif is like my brother and is making me see my country in a way I never have. I am beginning to think he is in love with Latifa—though surely this is not possible. I look forward to our outings together more than to anything else. My disappointment is enormous if for some reason he cannot come. And then there is this extra heart-beating feeling, which I cannot even begin to explain.

One day we drop Latifa off to get her hair done.

“I live close by,” Sharif says.

My thoughts are elsewhere. “You know, Latifa likes you.”

“I know,” he says. “Her spirit is very heavy.”

“So you don’t like her that way?”

“There is only one sister of my dear friend and cousin Jalal whom I consider to be a princess.”