Where Home Starts and Ends

图片取自 灰鷹巢城

　　One afternoon, I sat at the dining table and drew a map of Palestine from memory. Baba walked by, coffee cup in hand, and said, "You still remember that?" I nodded and looked at the map nervously, hesitant about whether I'd drawn it right. I pointed at the western border and asked, "Is that right?" "Who knows," he said, waving his hand dismissively. He walked onto the balcony and sink into a chair. The steam from his cup rose and made a phantom out of his bearded face. I approached him timidly. I wanted to know more.

　　"What do you mean, Baba, when you say 'who knows'?"

　　"oh, Habibti. That map is from a certain year. The maps that came earlier looked different. And the ones that come after even more different."

　　"What do you mean?"

　　"I mean . . . there's no telling. There's no telling where home starts and where it ends."

　　I sat with him on the cold balcony for a while. When I got up to go back inside, I noticed that Baba's eyes were filled with tears.

　　I took the map I drew to my room, flipped my pencil and brought the eraser's tip to the page. I erased the western border. I erased the southern and eastern border. I surveyed what remained: a blank page, save for the Galilee. I stared at the whiteness of the paper's edges for a long, long time. The whiteness of the page blended with the whiteness of my sheets. "You are here," I thought as I looked at the page and all around me. And oddly, I felt free.

A Map of Home, P192~193
Randa Jarrar
ISBN 978-1-59051-272-2

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