I remember that summer as a haze of beauty.
My bleeding began, and the village women
embraced me like a treasured gift.
The older girls pulled me to the top of the trees,
allowing me first pick of the fruit closest to the sun.
From that lofty perch I could see the orchards flowing down
through the valley, each tree adorned by young women in bright headscarves,
their working rhythm swaying with the branches as they filled their back baskets.
In the light-filled evenings,
we sat under the trees on long trestle tables stitching our wedding quilts.

And then, as the days grew shorter, the rumbling began.
First distant rumors, then traces of smoke in the air.
And the last day, from the tops of the trees I could see the
fire slithering up the valley, killing everything in its way.
We fled to the hills and began our long trek to the sea.
Babies in arms, elders on shoulders, no time to stop or breathe.
At the sea, we traded all we had left for passage on wildly dangerous rafts,
heading for lands where we were unwelcome and despised.

Now, I sit in the window seat of my uncles flat.
A strange city, a strange language, and I am trying to be grateful.
From where I sit, I am level with the tops of the trees flowing down the boulevard.
I tell myself I should appreciate these lovely trees, their dancing branches.

They only make me sad, for in their emptiness, for they hold no adornment or laughter.
I’m called to dinner, so I wipe my tears.
Tonight, while I fall into sleep, I will remember the laughter of that last summer.
And just for a quick moment I will allow myself to wonder:
What happened to our wedding quilts?