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najat el hachmi
by stem, making a bunch in my
hand, snipping off the stalk
ends that had gone brown
where they’d been cut, placing
the perfect bunch under the
tap and energetically shaking
off the water into the sink.
From the kitchen I could hear
the ladies chattering, the
ancient litany they repeated
whenever they met. Clasping
hands they held under their
chins as they kissed. One
cheek, then the other, and
another and another, every
cheek that was there. The
loud kisses our women gave,
infinite if they’d not seen
each other for a long time,
truncated when encounters
were more frequent, but
always repeated, bounced
off cheeks, lips smacking
against cheeks or in the air
as they rehearsed their polite
formulas with each movement
that, not knowing how, the
two kissers alternated without
stumbling, never allowing the
slightest space for silence:
how are you?
Labas? Mlih?
How’s the family? How’s
your health? And so on and
so forth. In fact, they are all
questions that in the end
lead to the single response
that covers every possible
response: thanks to God.
Alhamdu li Allah.
Everything
is fine because everything
depends on the will of God.
So why waste so much time
asking those questions? Why
the vacuous, pointless litany?
In that sense I’ve always been
a poor giver of greetings. I
don’t give the stock reply, I
take the lady’s hand, give the
minimal kisses her frantic to-
and-fro will allow and struggle
to ask how she is. Worst of all,
I’m incapable of giving thanks
to God, thanks for what? Who
is God? Where is he? How do
you know he exists? Don’t you