Sitti, my mother’s mother, is dying. It will be soon, before the summer ends; that’s what everyone says. Auntie Shahira is going to come. Maysoun can’t leave the store. Haydar is crazy. Huda is dead. My mother is here. That leaves Hamdi, the oldest son. But he is too busy with his American life, with his American wife, to come say good-bye. Or even hello.

He calls every once in a while. He sends money. He’s not that different from Um Radwan’s children, because he really wants to forget. ... Which reminds me of when Hamdi did come to visit so many years ago.

Like yesterday, like tomorrow. It was early summer, still cool in the morning, with a clean crispness, like new sheets for a wedding. A week before they came, my mother and grandmother began scrubbing Sitti’s house from top to bottom, front to back, side to side (should we do it left to right or right to left?). Scrubbing, then rinsing, then scrubbing again. My father oiled old doors. My mother did laundry and scrubbed some more. My father painted and adjusted the antenna on the roof.

“God willing, my oldest son will come every year,” Sitti said with a wink, admiring her clean old house scrubbed like new.

“What do you think they will bring us?” I asked my mother the day before they came, though this idea had been in my head for days.

“Shame on you. Perhaps they will bring you one sour American lemon.”

“Yama! What do you think they really will bring?” My mother clicked her tongue and ignored me. The thoughts stayed there in my head. Big fat thoughts ... a beautiful plastic doll with long legs and long yellow hair, a fancy dress I could wear to weddings, a fancy American toy that did tricks—it didn’t really matter. I was sure it would be wonderful. Then I could have something to show off to Hanan, God forgive me my greedy thoughts.

Hanan lived down the road from us in a fancy villa. She was born in the States, and came back when she was four. She had her own room with huge furniture and fancy plastic toys. My mother said she was spoiled, but not in a good way, like the kind who has too many things (The more you give them, the more they want) and wants so much more to fill some empty spot we can’t see. She was the only person I knew who had that many toys.

She also saw things. Not things like ghosts and jinn, but magical things in the ordinary everyday things, like a crumpled wrapper lying in the street.

“Look,” she’d say. “It’s a poor old man on his knees begging for mercy from his wife who he’s cheated on.”

I would stare at it.

I would stare harder.

And I would see a crumpled wrapper.