As Long As the Lemon Trees Grow

He and I are owed a love story that doesn’t end in tragedy.

“Beautiful.” But he isn’t looking at the necklace.

“Beautiful.” But he isn’t looking at the necklace.

“Beautiful.” But he isn’t looking at the necklace.

“Beautiful.” But he isn’t looking at the necklace.

Salama, you and I live our lives second by second. We might live to ride that boat to Syracuse. We might settle in Munich. We might learn German, paint our apartment in vibrant shades of color we haven’t seen in Homs in a long time, and build a life. An amazing life. You’d become a pharmacist all the hospitals would trip over themselves to hire, and I’d draw our stories. We’d have our own adventures.” He looks away bashfully, stumbling on his words. “We’d write a book. Together. But… we also might not survive these six days. We might be buried here. Anything can happen, and I don’t want to wait anymore. No one knows the future. But I know how I feel. I know how you feel. So let’s find our happiness here in Homs. Let’s get married in our country. Let’s make a home here before we make one somewhere else.”

To Studio Ghibli, who welcomed a wide-eyed nine-year-old girl into their home, showered her with islands that fly, boys who turn into dragons, and the brave girls who save them. Thank you for my life. Your stories made me who I am.

It reminds me that as long as the lemon trees grow, hope will never die.

“Salama, love of my life. My sky, my sun, my moon, and my stars, would you grant this mortal wish of mine?”

I wonder how the outside world fares, how they sleep at night knowing we’re being butchered in our sleep. How they allow this to happen.