Talking through the Door: An Anthology of Contemporary Middle Eastern American Writing

J o s ep h A w a d

63 J o s E P h A w A d from “A Novena for My Mother” 4. Flashing on my window through the night, Her waving spectre followed when we went To live with Sithee. Cramped and recondite, That third fl or room was never meant For dad and me. There was a curtained door To a roof and a clothesline’s creaking din. On stormy nights the wind would howl and roar And pound on the door like someone wanting in. Cold with fear, I’d slip from early bed, Camp on the stairs to hear the radio’s drawl Or worried parlor voices (what they said Of mother chilled) or Sithee, in her shawl, Rocking my sister, shushing her bleating cries, Crooning, in Arabic, soulsweet lullabies. 5. Crooning, in Arabic, soulsweet lullabies, (Her long black hair, unbound, mysterious) Hugging us, baking us hubbus, cakes and pies, My grandmother opened house and heart to us. Father’s bachelor brothers became my brothers. Aunt Anna, whose love would fasten us together, Quit her job to be our “second mother.” T a l k i n g T h r o u g h T h e D o o r 64 New Year’s eve brought snow and bitter weather And the party at Aunt Mary’s where we sleighed On frozen coal hills while the grownups sang And laughed and polkaed. How the accordions played! And when the curfew blew and the church bells rang In the falling snow, I wept. But at my ear My father whispered, “She’ll be home next year.” 6. My father whispered, “She’ll be home next year.” That summer, I went with cousins and Uncle Frank Picking huckleberries. Blazing days were here. Sithee and Charlie showed me how to yank The tenderest grape leaves from their ghostly groves. With Aunt Kitty I rode a Trailways in the gloaming To her Jersey in-laws’ farm, where swimmers dove From a swinging tire. I’d feed the chicks and roam The butterfly elds. Flash, racing me, would bark. Hot nights I twisted while the thundering trains Shook the walls and moaned in the far dark, The starlost night of “isolation’s” pain. Back home, the streets, the morning light seemed strange. Once more I watched the season’s colors change. 7. Once more I watched the season’s colors change. On Chestnut Street the trees were towered gold. My father, faltering, told me he’d arrange For me to visit mother “before the cold.” I had made that trip before, then stood outside, Forbidden to enter, looking up at mother Through her window. After that endless ride We could only wave and smile, each to the other. This time we went inside. We found her room Where paned October sunlight crossed a hall. J o s E P h A w A d 65 I entered with small steps. Her eyes consumed. We dare not touch. By a crucifix on the wall, She lay there lost in cerements of white. Softly, fondly she asked, “Why don’t you write?” Memories of Tiger Rag The house would jump with light and sound. Melancholy would fly way When uncle Al and uncle Joe And their swinging twelve-man band Rehearsed in Sithee’s living room. When they rose as one to sway and play The roaring score of Tiger Rag, My secret soul would strut and shag. “Al Awad,” was their billing, “And his Royal Vagabonds.” Long Afternoon, at the upright, Al tinkered, plinked, exploring chords, Bending an ear to heed a key, Orchestrating a popular song, Arranging it in his easy style, Replaying it with a dreamy smile. Uncle Joe was a cabinet maker. He hammered and sawed by day. By night he rattled and rolled the drums, Bashing the cymbals with panache. He crafted the band’s music stands, Emblazoned on each a double “A” And a treble clef with a sparkling crust Sprinkled with Hollywood glitter dust. T a l k i n g T h r o u g h T h e D o o r 66 When a tympany thundered in our house, All the kids in the neighborhood Milled like moths at our front window, Agog, with Barney Google eyes. I would king it in the living room, As any schoolboy would, Loving their envy, pressed to find A friendly way to draw the blind. Those...