that look that look

My mother once said that when a man most needs help, he is least able to accept it. I looked on as my parents went their separate ways along inevitably not so separate paths until a tolerable semblance of separateness overcame the ten little hands stretched inexorably across the void, fingers grasping, sweating, connecting, if only for parents’ desperate memories of what was best for them, that is to say, keeping it together for the kids’ sake, until finally, destiny and odds caught pace, content to release a mother determined to defy the old, “Babies having babies” addage, but not, as it came to pass, the father. Her path inclined up, but not gently, toward greener pastures, while his dropped sharply in another direction, jutting into a concrete maze of single room apartments for the forever single, cordially proximate to the local, not so friendly neighborhood liquor and lifestyle store. On my hilltop perch, squinting through the haze to the second of these paths, I watched as my father become a grandfather.

I’ve seen the look of a man in desperate need but lacking the requisite of request, eyes sunken beneath wrinkles and time and reality, the betrayal of his faded former self, too tired to grasp at the edges of the socket and pull to freedom. The body distended and bleeding inside. The wilted strength of a man both young and old. The steps faltering more than once on that long, lonely walk to the other side. The quiet, reflective sort of sadness hiding in those deep eyes, chaos boiling behind but never boiling over.

A prisoner can slam his fists into white painted walls until they streak crimson, but when his voice ceases to resonate and fails to echo even unto itself, when the guards fall silent beyond the limits of doubt they remain at all, when the prisoner knows he is alone, when crimson becomes oxblood becomes black, only the look, that look that look remains.

I see it reflected in eyes that dig into me and ask without asking what’s wrong, where have you been, you look tired, are you ok, what’s the matter what’s the matter. I was asked twice today why Balata. Why would I pick that place, those nights, those sleepless nights, the gunfire that can’t startle a response no matter how hard it tries, the soldiers, the spotlights, the burning homes, the listless, the shadeless, the steel bars over shattered glass, the look my eyes earned there, the price they paid.

My first answer was automatic. I have to try harder, have to live harder to have the right to speak about this life I’m only visiting when I decide finally to leave it. I have to bleed and burn. I have to earn it. The hills of this valley are too close. I’d see the flash, count the seconds, curse the thunder.

My second answer was quieter. This city is a grandfather, he breathes and laughs and mourns. If you stay the winter, you will admire his best suit, a pressed starched shirt and tie, enjoy his knaffe and Turkish bath, smile to the smile of an unassuming man obliged to welcome a guest and shelter him from the rain.

Stay the spring, and between the city’s mountains adorned white, against backdrops of deep green and birth, you will hear the crack and scream of his enemy’s bullets. You will see the balaclava clad stalk its ancient seams. You will leave a wise man.

Stay the summer and you will know his grandsons’ rage. A hot wind will drape Gulf dust across the city. Stare to the gale and it will pull your tears from their corners, evaporate and abscond with them before they are called upon to fall. His family will reveal itself to be families, the colors of their masks will emerge blue and red and black. As habibis become malak zelemehs and welcomes become where have you beens, your eyes will begin their retreat. Slowly, steadily, defensively, instinctively, less sure of the for sures.

You will stand halted on a path that was so recently familiar so recently rising, as he sets you off his shoulders and acends to your own. His handshake will become an embrace, a gift and curse. His shaking arms will tighten as you lay hot against his woolen jacket of patchwork and torn, empty pockets. Pass the threshhold of cologne and the sweet and sour odor of a tired man will soak through your salt and rust skin. Feel the weight of his love and know you are family and family is forever. Relent as he pulls tighter. That is the choice you made. This is the changing of the season. To accept him is to accept his past and his father’s past, his children, their tragedies, their graves, his enemy, his dreams, his shattered dreams. Quiet your voice, silence your objection. Put your head to his frail, undying chest and listen, listen for the first time, to his heart still beating within.

This city heaves with collective strength. Breathes in as one, exhales as one. The air is shared between so many, the weight, the weight. It closes in on the pharaoh, unstoppable, unyielding. Quiet your voice, silence your objection. Listen to his heart, still beating within. Do not leave him alone. The fall is near.