My Grandfather’s Garden

Not toys or trinkets,

but the fig tree knew my name.

I played beneath its heavy limbs,

my feet tangled in the grass

like roots learning to belong.

I spoke to the doves

that nested in the olive branches,

shared my secrets with the wind

that carried citrus scents

from lemons split on the stones.

Grandfather would smile from his porch,

a mug of mint tea in hand,

while I pressed wildflowers

between pages of his worn Qur'an.

In that garden,

time didn't walk forward—

it dozed in the sun beside me.

Now, in a foreign city

where pigeons sound different

and the trees don’t whisper in Arabic,

I remember that garden

as something alive in me still.

So I write it—

leaf by leaf,

until I can feel his voice

in the rustle again.