That’s how we lived…
incredulous of pajama powers
and ‘dishdasha’ hours
stuffed with Turkish nostalgia
dripping of toothpaste on the morning sink.
Then came the ‘kahi’ and we sat and ate,
the syrup dripping from our plates,
in our bedroom attire.
Ours was a smell of mint
and fresh water,
fried eggs and hot khubuz.
It all floated in Aunt Khadija’s kitchen
and finger played at
the next door neighbor’s windows
Ours were the roses red in the heat of a mild spring,
heads tilted, smiling back at our shining Istikans.
The tea was never enough!
Ours was the crisp morning air
touching our cheeks gently,
reminding, it would only be there for so long…
Smiles and teeth as bright as goodness
Bread as warm as the
golden hearts of those years
that never faltered…
Sometimes in the cold
when the snow comes to rest
I wonder…
Was it all a Turkish delight in a dream…
