Alone in Atlanta
Katie Coe
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
swimming in a lake of slippery olive oil
and dark, sour vinegar
just the way Uncle taught him to make it
Warm flat bread
kneaded and pounded by his own bony hands
instead of by the strong, muscular ones of his son
Stuffed inside- 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, beef, mixed together as he stood alone
instead of behind his daughter
whose small fingers could not grind the meat enough
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
that is still kept in the small green vial
but 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 tastebuds
and sends him back
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.
With the taste of home,
he is not alone.
Spring, 2017 Issue