Brights lights

He sits alone at the small red table,

cold white tiles under his feet,

warm air heavy with garlic

but empty of people.

Fresh spinach and plump roma tomatoes

swim in a lake of slippery olive oil

and dark, sour vinegar

just the way Uncle taught him to make it.

Warm flatbread –

kneaded and pounded by his own bony hands

instead of the strong, muscular ones of his son –

is stuffed with bursting ripe tomatoes, crisp leafy lettuce

bought from the farmer’s market

instead of grown by his wife

in their backyard,

loved and nourished

as she gently whispered Lebanese lullabies

from their childhood together in Beirut.

Warm, tender gyro meat

sliced off the loaf

that is crammed in the tiny fridge,

lamb and beef that he mixed as he stood alone

instead of behind his daughter

whose small fingers could not grind the meat

so he guided her

holding her precious hands in his.

Cool tzatziki sauce drips:

fresh, watery cucumbers, sweet onions, and thick cream

carefully blended

with Popa’s spices, tediously added –

thyme, oregano, basil, garlic, salt,

and his secret Cavender’s mix –

still kept in the small green vial

now in the crowded pantry

of his American apartment

instead of the wide open shelves

of the kitchen in Tripoli.

The warm embrace of pita and gyro

the sweet explosions of fresh produce

and splashes of refreshing tzatziki

the acidic bite of vinegar and oil

overwhelm his taste buds

and send him home

to his lovely Aziza’s garden

to the tiny Shevna, playing at his feet and reaching
for the mixing bowl

to Uncle and Popa’s kitchen

full of spices, oils, and vinegar,

and Zahle, with the dough.

The taste of Lebanon

takes him home

so wherever he travels

he is never really gone.