Maria, you brushed your hair in the high ceiling house with the colorful stained glass windows. In the neighbourhood, kids laughed and competed. 

Your pots and pans still emit heat from the feasts you prepared and visitors' stories of their homeland in your home. 

Your coffee tasted strong and bold like promised tomorrows.

You would smile and patiently give us the lettuce of the world to feed those turtles. 

Slow living, that's what I remember of Beirut. 

And how your lemonade was always kept to high standard, year on year. 

I remember hints of bar soap; exploring your pantry of eclectic spices, herbs and nuts. 

Your thin paper where I wrote my first rhymes. 

There was something mesmerising about those patterns in your tiles, those sculptures and books. 

They would open a new conversation piece; we would come together to weave our tapestry of roots. 

I carry your name, 'Maria', it's a part of me.

And I always remember you dearly.

Copyright M. E. S ©