She was sitting in her usual place, her authentic Palestinian dress always draped over her frail body. They united in it, forming a wonderful system of true cohesion and innate fusion. Her features appeared as a field of wheat ears welcoming the sun and light, shining with uprightness and an authentic will to live.
Her back became more bent as she bent over the bunch of thyme before her. Maryam heard her say more than once that the calamity had bent it. He was as strong as the pillar of the house, Maryam. He knew joy in the orchards and the olive harvest. There was no back that grieved and distanced itself. Our seasons were weddings, but now our weddings became sorrows. Since the day of the Naksa, we have not seen a sweet moment.
Bundles of thyme, baskets of straw, and a needle: a Palestinian spirit in the house, bringing memory back to the land, to the fragrance of authentic expansion rooted deep within the homeland. Every now and then, it was necessary to practice these rituals, as available, so that the soul might be intoxicated, soaring in the horizon of memories that never fade...