I’ll Come Back
I never got to walk through my neighborhood for the last time.
When I close my eyes, I can see the streets. I can feel them passing under my feet. I can see the bougainvillea climbing over cracked whitewash, the pebbles and litter underfoot, the graffiti on the walls of the local high school, the tiny glimpse of the city you could get from the hill—the white buildings wrapped in the purple haze of sunset. I can see the roots poking out between the paving stones by the local mosque, the hrathar by the roundabout in front of the Monoprix Express, the cats sitting in the sun on top of the walls.
I can see the brilliant blue of the sky and feel the oppressive sun. I can see the jasmine in our front yard, the only thing we managed to grow correctly, the branches laced overhead and dripping with fragrance in the summer heat.
It’s not fair to say I’m upset, or distraught, or angry at the move. The reasons make sense. The whole thing is very logical. It was the time to leave, and I myself had adjusted to the idea in my two years away from home. But somehow, it’s still home.
20 Things I’ll Miss About Tunisia, in no particular order:
Driving through endless olive groves outside of the city.
Gammarth beach. The many birthday parties and events we had there. The times in the middle of the winter or at sunset during Ramadan that we would go down to the empty beach with take out and watch the sunset and go for a meandering walk down the sand and collect shells. The fires we would have behind the dunes. The nights we would stay and watch the stars.
The shell, rock, and sea glass collection spread throughout the house. That set of rocks so smooth and round, I was going to make a checker set out of them. I never play checkers.
Our movie room where we had years of Castle Nights with good friends and good food, not to mention seven (7) full Lord of the Rings movie marathons.
Michael coming over on a moment’s notice just to hang out and binge White Collar.
The bright colors on the walls of my room.
Road Trip Food. Bread at toll stations and roadside fruit and Coca Cola and music pumped up loud.
Sidi Bou Said. Its blue doors and windows and flowers hanging over everything and the ledge where you could look out over the sea and the doughnuts, hot and covered in sugar.
Easter Sunday sunrise services, always on someone’s roof overlooking the city. Whitewashed walls turning lilac and orange and yellow in the haze of dawning light.
Pomegranate season, when Mom and I would watch Gilmore Girls and shell a massive bowl of ruby seeds.
Our neighbors across the street and their welcoming smiles.
Hanuts and local grocery stores. The convenience and comfort and friendliness of the local hrathar (fruit and veggie stand) and bakery.
The one-day-a-year flower on Ethan’s cactus, Mr. Cuddles, light pink and larger than the cactus.
Those purple trees that bloom in the summer and coat the whole street.
That Italian place in Haouria where you never order, you just take what the owner brings out.
Sheep on the road.
The harrowing hike down to the shipwreck. Slowly, it’s sinking below the waves.
Speaking Tunisian Arabic naturally and directly.
The walk to school I’ve done hundreds of times. I know I complained in the heat when I had to carry my textbooks, but I’ll miss it all the same.
The view from the roof at youth group. The whole city stretched out. Stars in the blue while the nightly prayer call echoes.
There’s always more. I will continue to add to my list. I doubt that the reality of the move will sink in until I can’t return for Christmas. Tunis will become another Used-to-Be Home. I know this since I seem to have already moved beyond it to a certain extent. I know the community that I’ll return to at the end of the summer, at Wheaton. I can look forward to seeing friends again, to starting classes, to biking down to the marsh.
There are blessings through every transition, and I know the meaning of bittersweet. The internet helps me keep up with friends from home, to call and enjoy hearing their voices, but it is never the same as having them with me. The pixels stay pixels. It’s a blessing that I didn’t have to say goodbye to the cats. As I continue to remind my parents, they’re the only friends you can actually take with you in your luggage.
The night before my high school graduation, I sat down and wrote this poem. I finished it, “To leave is to long that one day, / in the cavernous future you / and I will meet again.” Most of my words hold true for this new leave-taking, but not those. I don’t long; I know. I’ll come back.