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I often think of those beautiful nights, where love was awaiting us outside our houses. Where lovers would wait for each other before being taken away by wind powered by kisses and lingering stares, future plans, and pure loving smiles.
Those nights where we played barefoot on the street, not minding the heat. With goals made by rocks and we would fight over a ball is a goal or not, a foul or not, before forgetting the score as we line up in front of Ali's store for that new red or green ice pop.
In my memories I sing as I walk down our street. My mother used to run a bakery three houses over from home. She sold bread and baking sweets, she would try out whatever recipe she would see on the one cooking show on the one T.V station our T.V can broadcast. She would add her secret ingredient to each baking good, she told me that the secret ingredient was smiles she picked from the big tree next to the bakery, one that gave shade to the story, its own way of contributing to the community.
I would wake up each day before going to school, but before going I would stop by the bakery where she would pick up a special treat from under the counter and give it to me on my way to school. Passing by Antar, the neighborhood drunk, trying to impress Samar.
At night, I would walk around the neighborhood. I would see people lining up in front of my mother's humble bakery, some people carrying bags, some people driving their cars. They come and go all day long, playing joyful songs. I would see Antar flirting getting drunk and flirting with Samar as she acts fancy.
As the day was ending I would walk home singing.
"Oh, those beautiful nights
Oh, they are always on my might
Singing the same song
Singing it all day long"
And people would repeat my song from the street and balconies from their houses
"Oh, those beautiful nights
Oh, they are always on my might
Singing the same song
Singing it all day long"
Time flew by and a day by day, the bakery was closed after the invasion tanks overheated the dough and the tree shade. And the ghost of my mother started baking memories and misery picked from the dry branches of the dead trees.
I went there a week ago, passed by the torn houses and abandoned balconies. Walked to the bakery and found dry, burned, and deformed piece of bread waiting for me, the last one my mother left me before war started.
I saw no one in the neighborhood other than Antar trying to impress the ghost of Samar, looking more drunk than. I walked away from the bakery singing.
"Oh, those beautiful nights
Oh, they are always on my might
Singing the same song
Singing it all day long"
And the happiness and joy people left behind before immigration responded through the destroyed balconies
"Oh, those beautiful nights
Oh, they are always on my might
Singing the same song
Singing it all day long"
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