lebanon, i love you, and my heart aches

it's 3:33am and I've been up since 2. not completely abnormal. but all I can think about is lebanon. I think about the days filled with ease, no underlying sense of urgency, spent walking down hamra street. trailing from the mosque near the waterfront to an airbnb nestled along an elbowing Mar Mikhael street. I hear the prayer calls, wailing through tight, powdery, hot springtime air, and the pitter-pattering of the two striped cats outside our rented room door - one fluffy, one slender. grabbing shawarma from Barbar, succulent and satisfying to a degree I never knew could exist, and chasing it down with the most crisp cola. a love so evident, still palpable to this day, this moment, every single second. lebanon, I love you. I love your craggled edges, the weathered pathways in Tripoli that make me wonder if my father has walked my exact steps, my grandmother, her grandmother, and onward. my heart aches. my eyes are sore. my throat is dry. I am a wreck. but I love you lebanon, that will never dissipate as long as I will live. I feel myself welling up again. what a gift to love a place so much, a country, a people, my family. my father told me of games on the streets with marbles, and my aunt tells me of when my dad owned a bookshop on the corner. I never knew that. I borrowed trousers from the clothing shop down the road from there, and my uncle took me to the mosque - right next door to a church. I see the clock tower, the one my father told me about. it sits straight ahead of me on the edges of a park circled with citrus trees - out of season - and surrounded by streets bustling with cars. I love you lebanon. I will come back to you. this will not be the end of you. my heart aches. my eyes are sore. my throat is dry. I am a wreck. but I love you lebanon, that will never dissipate as long as I will live.