me to turn around and leave this department store empty-handed, to defy Hallmark’s insistence on this particular expression of love. So I went out on a limb and decided to give him the one present I never had before: nothing. Instead I’d found a piece of red construction paper among my daughter’s art supplies, cut it into the shape of a heart, and scribbled reasons I loved him all over the back.
Later that night, after the dishes were done and Aliya’s bath was finished, we set out in the dark for a nighttime walk. Leaving behind our warm, bright house that still smelled of the chicken we had roasted, we stepped into the bracing night air beneath a starlit canopy. We cut through our backyard and crossed into a meadow. A herd of deer lifted their heads in unison to stare at us, then froze like lawn ornaments as we passed by. We skirted the edge of the pond without speaking, our long strides falling into rhythm. On the far side of the meadow, we stepped onto the sidewalk and walked side by side. The damp pavement shimmered in the weak glow of a street lamp.
This was the time of day when we talked, when our thoughts meandered like these paths we followed through our neighborhood. His voice in my ear was a low purr, contented and pleasant. We walked briskly, our long shadows leading the way before us on the sidewalk. Ismail turned to me. “I’ll never forget the gift you gave me today. Thank you.”
I glanced at him, then back at our shadows bleeding together on the pavement. The Qur’an says that God is nearer to us than our own jugular vein, and there were moments when Ismail felt that close to me: nearer than my own skin, so close that I lost sight of him altogether. If I tried to describe that intimacy, each word was a wedge between us, cleaving us in two, creating concepts from a seamless whole. So I said nothing, focusing instead on the slender, faceless shadows before us. Merged together, they lumbered like one animal into the dark.
10
Welcome
A crowd of relatives the size of a large tour group waited in the bright sunshine outside the Tripoli airport to welcome Ismail home for the first time in eight years. We had flown to Libya via New York and Milan so I could meet his family for the first time and we could introduce them to Aliya, then five years old. I was three months pregnant. Having trekked the Himalayas, camped along the Baja peninsula, and crossed Europe in trains, I considered myself a seasoned traveler. But if I’d known that the cappuccino I drank at the airport in Italy would be my last taste of coffee for the next three weeks, I would have felt more apprehensive about this trip. I was also unaware that the workout clothes neatly packed in my suitcase would remain untouched. None of my previous travels had prepared me for my arrival in Libya as the pregnant American wife of a firstborn Muslim son.
Ismail’s youngest brother, Hussein, ran toward us and engulfed Ismail in a tight embrace, weeping and kissing his cheeks, while three of his sisters, in bright head scarves, circled around us. Like colorful, twittering birds that have found bird seed, they talked and laughed and pecked our cheeks, foreheads, and hands. They herded us into the parking lot and we crammed into tiny cars, counting each lap as an additional seat. The car I folded myself into with Aliya had no room for Ismail, so he ducked into a separate one. I found myself in a tiny hatchback with four adults and three small children who giggled and scrambled from lap to lap and from the front to the back of the car as we sped down a two-lane road through the desert.
We were headed to Ismail’s family home, where he had been raised. Though we were probably traveling no more than forty miles per hour, it felt like we were going twice that speed in this tiny vehicle. I rested my elbow on a door that rattled on it hinges, and the floorboards beneath my feet strained and popped over the cracked and pothole-marked road. My husband’s
Later that night, after the dishes were done and Aliya’s bath was finished, we set out in the dark for a nighttime walk. Leaving behind our warm, bright house that still smelled of the chicken we had roasted, we stepped into the bracing night air beneath a starlit canopy. We cut through our backyard and crossed into a meadow. A herd of deer lifted their heads in unison to stare at us, then froze like lawn ornaments as we passed by. We skirted the edge of the pond without speaking, our long strides falling into rhythm. On the far side of the meadow, we stepped onto the sidewalk and walked side by side. The damp pavement shimmered in the weak glow of a street lamp.
This was the time of day when we talked, when our thoughts meandered like these paths we followed through our neighborhood. His voice in my ear was a low purr, contented and pleasant. We walked briskly, our long shadows leading the way before us on the sidewalk. Ismail turned to me. “I’ll never forget the gift you gave me today. Thank you.”
I glanced at him, then back at our shadows bleeding together on the pavement. The Qur’an says that God is nearer to us than our own jugular vein, and there were moments when Ismail felt that close to me: nearer than my own skin, so close that I lost sight of him altogether. If I tried to describe that intimacy, each word was a wedge between us, cleaving us in two, creating concepts from a seamless whole. So I said nothing, focusing instead on the slender, faceless shadows before us. Merged together, they lumbered like one animal into the dark.
10
Welcome
A crowd of relatives the size of a large tour group waited in the bright sunshine outside the Tripoli airport to welcome Ismail home for the first time in eight years. We had flown to Libya via New York and Milan so I could meet his family for the first time and we could introduce them to Aliya, then five years old. I was three months pregnant. Having trekked the Himalayas, camped along the Baja peninsula, and crossed Europe in trains, I considered myself a seasoned traveler. But if I’d known that the cappuccino I drank at the airport in Italy would be my last taste of coffee for the next three weeks, I would have felt more apprehensive about this trip. I was also unaware that the workout clothes neatly packed in my suitcase would remain untouched. None of my previous travels had prepared me for my arrival in Libya as the pregnant American wife of a firstborn Muslim son.
Ismail’s youngest brother, Hussein, ran toward us and engulfed Ismail in a tight embrace, weeping and kissing his cheeks, while three of his sisters, in bright head scarves, circled around us. Like colorful, twittering birds that have found bird seed, they talked and laughed and pecked our cheeks, foreheads, and hands. They herded us into the parking lot and we crammed into tiny cars, counting each lap as an additional seat. The car I folded myself into with Aliya had no room for Ismail, so he ducked into a separate one. I found myself in a tiny hatchback with four adults and three small children who giggled and scrambled from lap to lap and from the front to the back of the car as we sped down a two-lane road through the desert.
We were headed to Ismail’s family home, where he had been raised. Though we were probably traveling no more than forty miles per hour, it felt like we were going twice that speed in this tiny vehicle. I rested my elbow on a door that rattled on it hinges, and the floorboards beneath my feet strained and popped over the cracked and pothole-marked road. My husband’s
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