EpilogueBlue, the Mediterranean’s Color
Epilogue
or Blue, the Mediterranean’s Color
I’m back in Arwad, standing on the cliff Mama used to stand on. I can feel her right here, the ghost of her fifteen-year-old self beside me, holding my hand.
She was right about the Mediterranean. His blue is so infinite and deep, I know it will paint me whole.
It’s a warm June day, a whole year after I got admitted into Opus, and now Syria, my Syria is free. Now I know what Mama used to talk about.
I’m staying in Mama’s old childhood home in Tartus, which one of my aunts still lives in.
I sleep in Mama’s room and see the world through her eyes.
The colors in Syria are unlike any other place I’ve seen them.
In Tartus, they were rippled with joy like the auroras, singing me back home.
In Arwad, they’re a lullaby of soft pastels, spilling in shades all around me.
The grass curls around my ankles when I walk barefoot, and the birds chirp like they’re talking to me.
I visit the trees my great-aunt knew, and even though they don’t speak to me, I know they know who I am.
The branches that move closer to protect me from the sun and the soft moss bed under the roots for me to sit on are all the proof I need.
I don’t know where the tree my great-aunt made the sketchbook from was, but I tell the trees all about it.
I think they are happy because one of them drops a pomegranate in my lap.
I want to tell Jamie about this and send him a picture.
Life quickly became very busy for the both of us.
His studies at college and working at the farm keep him occupied, while Opus and creating art I’ve been commissioned to do takes up all my time.
There are long periods where we don’t text, though he still sends me pictures of the sheep, the sunrise, the twilight, and once, Lake Michigan.
Jamie: it’s not the mediterranean but I think you’d love it. it’s like an ocean.
It’s his subtle way of asking me to visit. And I will. One day.
I sometimes wonder if he’s moved on from something between us that didn’t even begin.
“Salam alaykum, Mediterranean,” I whisper as the breeze rushes past me.
The sunlight is dancing on the surface, beckoning me to jump.
“It took so long for me to come here. I’m Jihad.
Zaina’s daughter. She knew you when she was growing up here in Arwad and Tartus.
She told me how you welcomed her into your waters, and the jellyfish were her friends.
She’s not here with me today. She passed away in New York four years ago.
” I close my eyes, murmuring a prayer for her soul.
“I know she would have wanted to be buried here. In her home. But I’m here, and I’m hoping we can be friends. ”
I step closer, a few pebbles falling. “Bismillah.”
And I jump.
The wind rushes past me, and one second later, I’m in the water.
My eyes are closed, my heart beating in a way that aches, but there’s a sensation in my limbs I’ve never felt before. I realize the water isn’t cold, making me want to gasp. It’s cool and inviting. Like I always belonged here.
I open my eyes, and an infinite blurriness stretches in front of me. I can’t see the bottom, and I turn around, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling. The answer is right there, but I can’t seem to find it.
And then suddenly, like a switch, everything changes.
The murky blurriness is gone, a turquoise blue settling in.
The sea’s floor illuminates, and seaweed dances from side to side.
Coral reefs come alive under me. I see a starfish inching through the sand and a school of golden fish zooming past me.
Tears line my eyes, which get dissolved in the water.
When I turn around again, I see them. A bloom of jellyfish. Their bobbing bells and the countless tentacles, exactly how Mama described them. They surround me, a small one coming closer before tapping its head on my arm.
A sob builds in my chest.
I open my mouth and say, “We finally meet.”