It was Saturday, the first Saturday of the month, and the girls were
at it again. Mohammed left early when he heard his mom clanging pots
together in the kitchen. "MaMaaa, is Sana and Marina coming for lunch
today'" he called from the flat roof after morning prayers. "Yes, you
sister and grandmother are coming for the day. You know we meet every
month on the first. Marina your sister has a new job at the retail store
in town, and your grand mother is, well, she is the same as ever. Ready to
complain about the politician, the food, and the way you kids dress, but
she is still my mother, and I enjoy her company. We have seen many changes
. . and you should . . ." Mohammed already had grabbed his work vest, and
was headed out the door as his mother's voice changed from one of telling
him about the day to judging his modern attitudes.
"Good by MaMaa, I will be back after evening prayer." He called over
his shoulder. The last thing he wanted to do was to be lectured on his
attitudes by his mother. He was a young man, and as he pulled on his
brightly colored woven vest, Mohammed stepped onto his red Honda scooter,
Lillianna went back to work on the layers of pastry. She was fixing
her momma's recipe of Baklava which had been passed down to her by her
mother. The dough had to be just right, or Sana would have something else
to complain about. Although Lillianna respected her mom as the oldest
living members of the family, her days were not often filled with the
energy she was putting into the baking this morning. Having her mom and
daughter Marina over was one of the bright spots of her monthly calendar.
Since her husband was killed in the 1980 civil war, Mohammed, Marina and
her mom were the focus of most of her life's energy. She still couldn't get
the image out of her mind. Her husbands business had been bombed during
fighting in the neighborhood. He wasn't even ...