this is palestine.

i always look for palestine in jerusalem and in ramallah, and she sends her bittersweet regards whenever i find her.

the old lady selling maramiyeh on the bab il-'amood steps sold me palestine's greetings for a shekel; the leafy stem on the clementines always wave as I peel them back, the sweet perfume of palestine rushing at me.

the 10-year-old old city boys, with a voice of their 50-year-old fathers, screaming (not to me, but to palestine) hello, hey! hello, hey! ooo 'ay!

i turnto find her, but both she and the 10 year-old abu-whomever always will have passed me by.

in jericho this weekend, i felt like she came out to greet me the second i stepped out of haifa's red opel, two dry breezy kisses on the cheek and a handful of dirt on my shoes;

i met palestine again.

walking up to haifa's house on a balmy january afternoon, i smelled palestine, and she smelled of burning wood and dusty oranges.

on the veranda overlooking the trees planted in rocky soil, i rocked back and forth on a rusty, lopsided, metal swing; with each clunk against the rail, thinking aloud, "nice to see you, to smell you, to hear you . . . again."

on the climb to the mount of temptation, i met her again! she was an african boy playing football with a his friends in the middle of a dirt road. big big smile. i swore he would tell me his name was palestine.

he said it was raed.

i picked 5 pieces of palestine from a tree, and we cooked with them the same day. and palestine filled our house. and our stomachs.

in the freshly pressed bicycle tracks left by a 9 year old girl in a pink sweater.
in the oranges pulling down the tree branches to tickle the pebbles in the soil.
in the dry dry breeze off the mountains too close to be distant.
in all of these.

i met palestine again. and she sends her regards.