...I remember, Mother, that we had an almond tree in the garden... The sparrows would take shelter in it, in the heat and in the cold. And it bore my name and my brother's... we carved our names into its ribs. So where is it, Mother?... — It grew very old, my darling, and the storm broke it... Your father planted it before the sea took him. He said: Eat from it in my name, and remember me... — And it will never blossom again, Mother, in the garden of our house, the way it used to? And the sparrows of the beloved house will never shelter in it again?... Where do those sparrows go, Mother... in the days of heat and cold... now that the storm has broken the beloved almond tree? And Mother... I remember, among the things I remember, that we had a green arbor... with red clusters hanging in it... and above it a moon, as if it belonged to us alone in the village... We would eat of the clusters... and live with the moon... But the moon is not here, Mother... nor the red grapevine... —

Farroukh's brush stole this sketch of Fouad Suleiman as he was writing this article...

It withered, light of my eyes... it withered. A worm gnawed at its roots and it died. And we built this loft in the face of the moon, so now the moon is above the loft and you cannot see it. — Did the moon die, Mother, along with the arbor?

— No, it did not die; but it is no longer ours alone in the village... And Mother... in the vineyard we had an ancient oak, standing by the path... a great one, its branches stretching in every direction... people took shelter in its shade, coming home at the noon of the day... It was part of the precious inheritance the family's grandfather left us in the village. But the oak is not where it stood, and there is no shade beneath it. And the sun scorches the path with fire at noontime... — We burned it for firewood, seed of my heart. Firewood and charcoal... The winter was cold upon you... I feared the cold for you... so we uprooted it that you might remain, my life... ...In the house, Mother, I remember we had a great chest... it stayed full of the grains of plenty, of beautiful white wheat. And above it, here on the wall... a cross my beautiful sister plaited from the sweet ears of wheat... The chest stood in blessing. But the chest is not here, nor the cross above it... Did we burn it too for firewood and charcoal, Mother, in the days of cold?! — My life... you remember precious things. The chest is still with us, in one of the corners of the house... But there is no grain in it anymore.

Your father went away... and the chest stood