Yaffa

For my Teta

she no longer recognizes my face
never will again
but can still smell her oranges
feels the sun kiss her face
as if on her balcony in Yaffa
61 years later

described like the most magnificent villa
must have been seven stories tall
spanned half the neighborhood
tree branches opened like arms
so trunks could witness its beauty

I visited the house with my brother
Israeli cab driver said he’d never heard of the street
Palestinian presence must have made his memory fail

my grandmother was a painter
mostly landscapes
now she can only describe them
words like poetry
thoughts like a scholar
no matter how much I read and write
I always feel like a student in the presence of refugees

my grandmother’s stories
came back like Haifa’s waves
the outside world may never mention their names
but the roots of olive trees
will never forget what happened