When we talk about reading, it’s a family tradition.
My mother, snug and pillowed on her side of the bed,
would read histories and novels, traveling far
from her cushioned spot, warmed by knowledge.
And when she passed her love of books onto me
I chose my way – a paradox between leaf and tree.
And as the boughs shook, damp and black, the air
welcomed each odd raindrop, unshackled and freed –
and it was like the whole garden of the language
in which I read began to dream. And the precision,
and the acute lodging of the words, page by page,
began to stir the wheels of thought. But I could never
tell if the quick-charmed mind came first: or if the serried
placing of the pacing words worked to slake a thirst
that was never there – not until the water came in bursts.
A Family Tradition
(Omar Sabbagh)
For Maha Faris Sabbagh
Marbella, Spain