The Sweetness of Tears by Nafisa Haji

think of poetry, we think of dusty old sonnets and verses written long ago by people no longer living, or by strange, solitary people who write their words in privacy, to be read privately, too, out of a book, silently, to yourself. Poetry in the East has to be recited and sung out loud in public to be considered really alive. The written form of it is only a record, to help people remember how the words go. Here, you don’t see people writing music to go with Shakespeare’s sonnets or Wordsworth or Yeats. A pity. In India and Pakistan, the ghazal s of Ghalib are still sung out loud. In Iran, Hafez comes alive in the mouths of children, through songs that everyone knows.”
    While I was at college, I went home as little as possible. I took a trip to Northern India one summer, volunteering at a Christian mission—an orphanage—to practice my Urdu. I went to the Middle East, too. Professor Crawley, who seemed to take a liking to me though his sarcasm never softened, arranged for me to stay with some friends of his in Lebanon, wealthy Christians who showed me around Beirut. From there, I went to Syria and Egypt, my eyes wide-open, breathing through my mouth the whole time, just like Grandma Faith had talked about. When I did go home, when I had to, I tried my best to slip back to a time before Mendel, living with Mom and Dad and Chris as if nothing had changed. If Mom wondered why I was studying Arabic and Urdu—she must have!—she never said anything about it.
    Chris was attending Shepherd’s College of San Diego, having decided, after that trip to Africa, that there’s no place like home, no food like Mom’s, and no other place he could have gone where his bed would be made for him, his laundry folded. To call him a mama’s boy would have thrilled Mom and not bothered Chris at all, since nothing really ever did. School had never been a priority for him anyway. He was serious only about one thing—his music and the Christian rock band he’d formed when he was still in high school. Christian March, it was called, which was his name, and which his friends, the other guys in the band, had decided was too good not to use. Chris was the lead singer, and they were working on getting enough material together to do an album.
    He came to visit me in Chicago for a long weekend at the beginning of my last year in college. I showed him around the city—Navy Pier, the Sears Tower, the Magnificent Mile, and the Field Museum. And talked him into trying Pakistani food, taking him to Mashallah Restaurant on Devon Avenue.
    The restaurant was crowded and we had to wait a few minutes before getting a table. When one opened up, Zahid, the restaurant owner, who I’d gotten to know over the past couple of years, seated us, handing us menus. I showed off my Urdu, asking him about his family—his mother and father in Karachi, his sister in New Jersey. Chris looked obligingly impressed.
    Zahid asked, “The old professor isn’t with you?” referring to Professor Dunnett.
    “No.”
    He looked at Chris, curiously, and asked, in English, “This is your boyfriend?”
    “No. You’ve seen my boyfriend. This is my brother, Chris. He’s visiting from California.”
    Zahid nodded and then turned, in a hurry, to put some tables together for a huge Pakistani family that was waiting at the door.
    Chris said, “You and Dan getting serious?”
    “I don’t know. I guess.” Dan was a friend of Chris’s from high school. He’d asked me to the prom at Christ Academy and we’d been together, chastely, ever since. He was going to school at Wheaton and came out to spend the day with me, now and then, in Chicago. He’d spent most of the weekend with us.
    Chris said, “He’s a good guy. But I’m kind of glad he couldn’t come tonight. Haven’t had a chance to talk to you alone all weekend.”
    I looked at Chris, smiled, and nodded. I’d invited Dan along with us everywhere on purpose.
    “What’s up with you, Jo?”
    “What do you