until the bowl can hold no more.
the rosewater takes me away,
back to times where showering with boiled water and wooden buckets was how we survived heat.
i see her on the balcony,
dried flowers and ivy pinned to her curls,
sewing us into the quilts she created by hand.
i still see her there,
unraveling our ancestry with every poke and pull through as she made us part of our soil.
my teta is a library of scintillating stories
and a bursting cabinet of spices.
she is the matriarch that made us,
the queen of syria,
the goddess that seamed blankets with historical fingertips
to build immortal armor stronger than any words of animosity.
they speak of us with desolate tongues,
but they do not know how sweet my teta tastes.
she is rosewater,
tangy and grounded,
passionate and blossoming,
the water of the earth that nourishes me and fills fountains,
the origin of all life that brings me back home.