US Today
Dear Zach,
It’s been a few years since we last spoke – seven, to be exact.
I just hope you’re okay. I know it’s been a while, but I think of you often. After all, you were my first love, if we could even call it that. I was only 14 when I met you that summer in Syria. I’m not sure I knew what love was, and I still don’t think I do, but boy, was I giddy each time I got to see you.
I still remember when we first met, with your tanned skin and sandy brown hair and boyish, crooked smile. I remember you wore that waiter’s uniform so well – a white shirt tucked in to black pants and a bow tie teetering loosely off your neck – and I just stared at you as you set a plate down on the table across from ours, inevitably making eye contact.
I am 21 years old, a junior in college, and to this day, I don’t think I’ve felt more butterflies in my stomach than I did in that moment.
I was just such sucker for green eyes like yours. Still am.
I was shocked I hadn’t seen you before. We’d been consistently going to dinner at Madinat al-Shabab on a weekly basis that entire summer. The restaurant in itself was an interesting concept – a massive park made up of swimming pools and greenery during the day, transformed into an elegant water-side eatery at night. I remember we laughed about it one time as we walked a lap around the perimeter of the park.
How could it be that you worked at my family’s favorite restaurant in Damascus, a place where my aunts, uncles, cousins and I could recite our orders without even taking a glance at the menu, and I only just met you three weeks before I was scheduled to fly back to the States. What a stroke of twisted fate.
You were three years older, working a summer job to help make ends meet at home. I was a visitor on foreign soil, accompanying my mother on a three-month vacation to visit her parents and siblings in Syria, her native land.
I recall how bitter I was to be leaving my friends behind for three months, but Syria quickly and rapidly grew on me.
I felt at home. I loved the informality of it all – the way cab drivers stuffed eight people in a taxi meant for four and the men who loitered outside of cafes, talking about soccer and their families. I loved the way the Syrian people, men and women alike, greeted each other with a kiss on each cheek. I loved the long, warm summer days and the cool, clear nights, and I loved waking up early in the morning and dangling my legs from my grandparents balcony as I watched the sun rise behind the mountains. On these mornings, my grandmother would join me and bring me a glass of hot milk, and we’d sit, side by side, and listen to the cows moo in the small fields of the neighboring farm.
I miss it. It’s hard not to. I think that’s one more reason I think of you so often. You’re one of the last and strongest memories I have in a place I loved so dearly.
I remember when we would sneak off, just for a few minutes at a time, into the greenery that grew on the outskirts of the restaurant, just next to the fence that acted as the border for the park. I remember how easy you were to be around and how easy it was for us to converse. You, in your native tongue, and me, with an American accent so heavy that it nearly shrouded the Arabic that carried it.
You taught me so much in that short amount of time. You taught me that I was capable and worthy of affection, something I still struggle to remind myself amidst a sea of college-aged boys. You taught me, or attempted to teach me, how to tie a cherry stem into a knot, a skill I have not yet mastered after all this time. You taught me the value of time and, most importantly, you taught me how to let go.
The night I left for the U.S., even after we’d said goodbye, I purposefully left my purse hanging on my chair at the restaurant, knowing full well you’d bring it to me on my way out, and I’d get one more chance to see you.
I saw you come bounding after me, with that ugly denim purse I used to love swinging from your shoulder.
“You forgot your purse,” you said.
I stood, dumbfounded. I had planned on kissing you in the middle of the restaurant, a product of a 14-year-old’s grandiose daydream, but not only had I never kissed a boy before, but my entire family also stood five feet from where we did as they waited to exit the restaurant, watching our encounter play out.
So, instead, I kept my lips to myself, and I just nodded and let you speak.
“Will I see you again?” you asked me.
Now, I frowned and looked at you. The question almost angered me. It didn’t make sense for me not to come back. We’d been visiting Syria on a regular basis my entire life. It was my parent’s home. My entire family lived there. The notion that I wouldn’t return to Syria, that I wouldn’t see you ever again, was nonsensical.
“Of course,” I said.
I haven’t set foot on Syrian soil since that night we last spoke in person, Zacharia. I couldn’t go back if I tried, and sometimes I wonder if I would even want to return if given the option. Most of my memories and the places they took places have been reduced to rubble. I’m terrified of tarnishing them.
You yelled after me as the door to the entrance closed behind me.
“I’ll call you.”
And you did. At first, it was easy, keeping in contact over the phone. I didn’t mind staying up late to wait for your call, but eventually it grew more and more tiresome. Soon enough, our conversations were replaced with a log full of missed calls on both ends.
Eventually, the months grew into years, and I got a new number and forgot to tell you and we completely fell out of touch — a decision I now regret for many reasons, but mostly due to the sense of curiosity that gnaws at my mind every now and then.
I can’t stop wondering where you are. I’ve tried Googling “Madinat al-Shabab” to see if the restaurant still stands, if it’s withstood the airstrikes and bombs and violence that seem to catapult Syria into the headlines on a daily basis. But as far as my Internet searches go, it doesn’t seem to exist, and I’m terrified neither do you.
Sometimes I find myself saying a quiet prayer that you’re still alive – that you escaped the war and found yourself a safe haven, like most of my family did.
I pray that you’ve found yourself a job in Turkey or Lebanon, or maybe Germany, one that pays you well enough and isn’t too unbearable. I even hope you’ve found yourself a girl who finds your green eyes as captivating as I did. Maybe you have, and maybe you’ve married her by now.
I pray to find that peace of mind. I want to know that the memories I carry from that summer can continue to live in a shared space – that they haven’t become one sided.
If you’re out there, and you’re reading this, I’m desperate to know you’re alive.
And if this letter never gets to you, and you never get to read the words I’ve written on this page, I hope you know I’m thankful to have known you. And that deep down, I secretly hope I cross your mind from time to time too.
With love, wherever you may be,
Danya