all my life,
my grandmother has talked 
about the scent
of the oranges in Jaffa.
you know you’re in Jaffa 
when you can smell them, 
she tells me.
not like the ones here. 
they smell otherworldly,
like perfume,
almost. 
she tells me.

//she has to tell me these things
because
there are no more
orange groves in Jaffa.
because
there is no more
Jaffa.//

all my life,
i did not know: my grandfather had owned
most, of the orange groves 
in Jaffa. 

//you see,
he didn’t talk
about Palestine.

i don’t know
where he was born,
i don’t know
how his parents met.
i don’t know
who his first love was.

i was too young
when he passed
to think
to ask.//

but today, i learn:

my grandfather breathed 
the seeds 
for those oranges in Jaffa. 
and 15 years after he
was forced to flee and
15 years after she 
was forced to flee 
the place with the air that tasted 
otherworldly,
they found each other— 

my grandfather, who loved oranges, 
my grandmother, who peeled them for him. 

in a foreign country, 300 miles away
twisting their tongues
to hide that its language was, 
not theirs
to fit
in the place that was,
not theirs

silently, unwittingly, 
they rebuilt their home 
in each other.
strong, 
as the scent
of the orange groves
in Jaffa.