Tip their mouths open to the sky. Turquoise, amber, the deep green with fluted handle, pitcher the size of two thumbs, tiny lip and graceful waist.
Here we place the smallest flower which could have lived invisibly in loose soil beside the road, sprig of succulent rosemary, bowing mint.
They grow deeper in the center of the table.
Here we entrust the small life, thread, fragment, breath. And it bends. It waits all day. As the bread cools and the children open their gray copybooks to shape the letter that looks like a chimney rising out of a house.
And what do the headlines say?
Nothing of the smaller petal perfectly arranged inside the larger petal or the way tinted glass filters light. Men and boys, praying when they died, fall out of their skins. The whole alphabet of living, heads and tails of words, sentences, the way they said, “ Ya’Allah!” when astonished, or “ya’ani” for “I mean”— a crushed glass under the feet still shines. But the child of Hebron sleeps with the thud of her brothers falling and the long sorrow of the color red.
Naomi Shihab Nye, “The Small Vases from Hebron” from Fuel.
After learning my flight was detained four hours, I heard the announcement: If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her Problem? We told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she Did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu-beduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used— She stopped crying. She thought our flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late.
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother until we got on the plane and Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of It. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and Found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about two hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering Questions.
She pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag— And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same Powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands— Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped —Has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too. This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
[photos by Annie O'Neill - part of the “Out of Many” exhibit that was featured at the 2018 Festival of Friendship in Pittsburgh]
We will call you “Agua” like the rivers and cool jugs. We will persuade the clouds to nestle around your neck so you may sleep late. We would be happy if you slept forever. We will tend the slopes we plant, singing the songs our grandfathers taught us before we inherited their fear. We will try not to argue among ourselves. When the widow demands extra flour, we will provide it, remembering the smell of incense on the day of our Lord.
Please think of us as we are, tiny, with skins that burn easily. Please notice how we have watered the shrubs around our houses and transplanted the peppers into neat tin cans. Forgive any anger we feel toward the earth, when the rains do not come, or they come too much, and swallow our corn. It is not easy to be this small and live in your shadow.
Often while we are eating our evening meal you cross our rooms like a thief, touching first the radio and then the loom. Later our dreams begin catching fire around the edges, they burn like paper, we wake with our hands full of ash.
How can we live like this? We need to wake and find our shelves intact, our children slumbering in their quilts. We need dreams the shape of lakes, with mornings in them thick as fish. Shade us while we cast and hook— but nothing else, nothing else.
“After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: if anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately. Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she did this. I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu-biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, sho bit se-wee? The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—she stopped crying. She thought our flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late. Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother until we got on the plane and would ride next to her—Southwest. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out, of course, they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies. And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—non-alcoholic—and the two little girls from our flight, one African American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice and lemonade, and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing with green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—has seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.”
— Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.”
When they invite you to the party remember what parties are like before answering. Someone telling you in a loud voice they once wrote a poem. Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate. Then reply.
If they say We should get together say why?
It’s not that you don’t love them anymore. You’re trying to remember something too important to forget. Trees. The monastery bell at twilight. Tell them you have a new project. It will never be finished.
When someone recognizes you in a grocery store nod briefly and become a cabbage. When someone you haven’t seen in ten years appears at the door, don’t start singing him all your new songs. You will never catch up.
Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second. Then decide what to do with your time.
(Words Under the Words: Selected Poems, Naomi Shihab Nye)
