As Long As the Lemon Trees Grow

“Beautiful.” But he isn’t looking at the necklace.

It reminds me that as long as the lemon trees grow, hope will never die.

Despite being a pharmacist, she’ll know some wounds will never heal.

Salama, no one’s here. There’s no Layla. I can’t see her.”

This is the land of your father, and his father before him. Your history is embedded in this soil. No country in the world will love you as yours does.

The rest is up to God. To fate. If you’re meant to be in Munich, you will be, even if the whole military rips this place apart. And if you’re not, then not even a private plane landing in the middle of Freedom Square to whisk you away will do that.

I grab his arm tightly, my eyes memorizing his faint scruff, the dimple in one cheek that appears when he smiles. This is the last memory I have of my brother. With time, memories distort, and I know I’ll forget his exact features. I’ll forget Baba’s brown hair, streaked with gray, and the gentle twinkle in his eyes. I’ll forget how Hamza is at least two heads taller and that he and I share the same shade of brown hair. I’ll forget the dimples in Mama’s cheeks and her smile, which lights up the world. Our family photos are buried under the rubble of this building, and I’ll never get them back.

I finally turn to my left, where Mama stands beside me, her eyes on the shish barak, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon.

That the bomb snatched her away from me and I’d never be able to hug her again.

Layla’s place—our place, I guess—is a one-story house stacked right beside others just like it. All of them bearing bullet holes that decorate the walls like deadly art. All of them quiet, sad, and lonely. Our neighborhood is one of the last where homes are still mostly intact. In other neighborhoods, people sleep under broken roofs or on the streets.