Good morning sea. Good morning past. Good morning Lebanon.
I stand here breathing the air of my childhood, wondering what becomes of it when I leave. Images of a young boy living in the safe streets of his vivid imagination come flying by. Here he is casting magic spells on those who charred his street and who kept him awake fearing the stranger’s car parked beneath his window would blow his time on earth into smithereens. Here he is again awaiting his father’s return from a hard day at work. The magic sound of father’s car horn announces the return of safety, and the arrival of goodies: Books, magazines, chocolates, and a child’s hunger for wise and safe company.
Here is my boy breathing the air of my past. I look at the vast sea, his innocence, and wonder how much of me is left here, and how much of that will survive in him. I wonder how many like me have left, and how many like him will return. I wonder how much of me comes back every time I set foot on this land.
I left my beltway home filled with cautious excitement. My dream of home would soon cease being a dream and become real. All along the way, I resisted feeling anything but dread—defensive dread to ward off and confront an eventual disappointment. But when home approached, and the streets of my childhood reared in through the bird’s eye, with my son next to me wandering in innocence, a sad kind of joy set in, with trepid tears and a fluttering heart.
Kais finally got to meet his grandparents, and the dream of home is over… at least until it’s time to dream again.