by Alaa AbdulSamad
I was born in this tiny Paradise–
its narrow streets but wide blue sky,
its big buildings but cozy homes.
This neighborhood says a thousand words.
The cars are parked inches away from each other,
showing how their owners used to love one another.
The buildings are bundled side to side, so close.
you feel it’s merely one building uniting
its inseparable neighbors.
I still hear the laughter of the folks in this building.
I still smell the Atayef prepared in that courtyard.
I still remember the women chatting in the opposite front yard,
under the clear sky, in the chilly night,
interrupted by the prayer call from the holy mosque
at the very end of the street.
Each balcony is a box of memory:
the smell of coffee drank there,
the nights spent counting the stars
meditating the beauty of this city.
Oh Emesa how gorgeous you are!
This giant tree on the right corner, covering my building
till war ends and I go back,
is still holding jasmine
for generation after generation,
spreading its fragrance.
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Born and raised in Syria, Alaa AbdulSamad resides in Austin with her husband and three-year-old daughter. She teaches pre-K, and in her spare time, she writes and draws. Alaa hopes to one day return to Syria to help the children continue their education that they are deprived from because of war.