As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (80)

I brush his hair back and his eyelashes flutter. He’s so young and stretched so thin between three people and an entire country. “You being here is enough.” I smile. “I promise. You ground me.”

He smiles back. Tentatively at first, and then it becomes genuine. “When we get to Germany, we’ll find help.”

He again thinks it could happen. And it might. So I nod.

“Let me see what you drew,” I say, and I open it to see a sketch of… me. He drew me as Sheeta with her yellow blouse and pink trousers. My hijab is a pale pink and I’m sitting atop an airplane’s wing. And beside me…

“Oh my God, is this you?” I exclaim.

He smiles shyly. “Yeah. As Pazu.”

He takes out another piece of paper. “This is another sketch for our story. I detailed the house our protagonist would live in. I was thinking the community would build them on trees. Like a whole village suspended in the air.”

“Growing crops and flowers on the tree’s branches. So the tree would supply its own nutrients to the growing plants!”

He beams. “That’s an amazing idea.”

We spend the rest of the evening slowly building up our story, adding elements.





Kenan drifts off before me, his head nodding, until I get off the couch so he can stretch out properly. He protests for a bit, but ultimately sleep weighs his eyelids down. I tuck the blanket around him, and the nostalgia of having done that for Layla when she was alive—and in my hallucinations—makes tears prick my eyes.

He looks peaceful in his sleep, the worry lines around his eyes smoothed. His eyelashes are so impossibly long that they brush his cheekbones.

I stare at him for a few more minutes, my heart expanding with love for him.

“We’ll be okay,” I whisper, letting the night capture my wish. We’re owed that at least. A life of not scanning rooftops, of not being relieved the ceiling didn’t cave in on us during the night.

He and I are owed a love story that doesn’t end in tragedy.

With my bed and the couch both occupied, the only place left is Layla and Hamza’s room. I pause in front of the door, my fingers over the handle. I take in a deep breath and open it with a click.

A rush of cold air greets me. The room still has hints of Layla’s daisy scent and Hamza’s cologne. Or maybe it’s a hallucination.

I don’t turn on the lights, instead letting my corneas and lenses adapt to the darkness. I run a finger over the forgotten furniture. A thick layer of dust lines the bedspread, commode, closet, and nightstand. I haven’t set foot inside in five months. The room has become a relic, belonging to memories, never wanting to be revived. Or probably it’s impossible to revive. Just like Layla. Like Hamza.

I sit on their bed, feeling oddly comforted. As if echoes of them are here. I close my eyes for a brief second and I know that when I open them he’ll be standing in front of me.

And he is.

The red dots on Khawf’s shoulders look like poppies in their shade and shape, and his eyes are blue ice chips gleaming in the darkness. He gives me a lopsided smirk.

“You knew,” I whisper. There’s no shock in me. My head scar and everything it represents—my grief, my PTSD—has created layers in my subconscious that I never thought were possible.

He shrugs. “It was quite amusing to see the degree of your delusions.”

I don’t say anything; I look at the window on the side. The curtains aren’t drawn tight, which allows a bit of the moon’s light to filter through. Soon enough we’ll be safe. And I won’t have to look out the windows and pretend the world isn’t on fire.

Khawf takes a step toward me, and I tear my gaze back to him.

“What do you believe in, Salama?” he asks quietly. A shadow flits across his face, a secret smile dancing on his lips.

My mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?”

He takes out a cigarette. The white tube flickers, becoming almost translucent before going back to opaque. “You believe in your faith. You believe in yourself. In Kenan. In Layla, when she was alive. You believe this revolution will be a success with the people sacrificing their hearts.”

“Yes.”

He takes a drag. “Did you believe in Layla the hallucination?”

I nod.

“Do you believe in me?” His smile widens.

My brows furrow. “You’re right in front of me. Of course I do.”

He taps the cigarette, ash falling, but it disappears midway. His gaze is far away. He looks at me, but it feels like he’s seeing beyond me. “I am. But I won’t always be.”

I straighten up. I know he won’t always be in my life. But hearing him say it both saddens and elates me. “How?” I ask.

He flicks the cigarette away and moves toward the window. “Fear and dread run high in Syria. They’re enhanced in you, which is why you see me. It’s safe to presume you won’t have these same horrors in Germany. So why would I follow you there?”

I stand, putting the pieces together. “You mean… when I get on that boat—when I leave—”

“I leave,” he finishes for me. He turns around and we stare at each other for a few minutes.

In this moment, he looks so solid, as if he were cut from the night and made into flesh and bones.