She drapes her boughs around my fragile frame as she kneads my hair. 
Her fingers mimic a rhythmic pulse, unmatched by any other element of nature. 

She tells me I have my mother’s hair, thick, moon-glazed waves, running down my spine like the Jordan River.

Waves of strands crawling gently to shore, creeping steadily towards yesterday.

The sea was its own master, quavering, harnessing its majesty.

She creates a complex structure of forms and patterns, weaving each strand.
An ebbing tide. 
Forging her own symphony.

“Go see.” 

And I hurry to the edge of this globe, lean over the groaning sea, reflecting parts of my being.
Murmuring hypnosis.

“I hate it.”

She carelessly dribbles onto the sand, runs her tips along the tide, along my spine. 
Quivering hands rest on my crown. 
A blessing, genesis.

“Little one, you detain the beauty of all your ancestors, woven into your entity. 
From your dense  dusky hair, along your broad shoulders, to the spine which lugs an entire nation, down to your wide hips, strong thighs, reaching your feet which carve history with each step.”

The humming of her wave song beguiled me, a metal tea pot slumbers next to us, vaporously exhaling its mist.

“Teta, what was it like?”

“Magic, solace… 
It was home.”

The sea quivered, hoarding its mighty power.

“One day, I’ll visit Palestine and bring you back a flower from the gardens of Jerusalem.”

The sea softly doused the beach, waves carelessly dribbling onto the sand.

“Never forget your roots; your beauty exists in history.” 

I fall asleep, curled between her arms. But I’ve woken up too late, and she has left too soon, 

“Teta, look, the sea has calmed down. 
If I swim far enough, I might be able to attain the sky. 
Would you reach your hand for me? Pull me closer to you?
I want to show you my poems, my friends, my loves.  
And I promise, Palestine always exists in me, 
Just as you…"








"I have to go before the waves rise again, but could you recite one last prayer?"