Our People

Liz, Ziad, and Ella dropped by to say good-bye last night, and what a sad good-bye it was. I cried as they pulled out of the driveway, I cried riding the elevator back upstairs, and I was still sobbing while we opened the lovely, elegant wedding gifts they brought for us.

We have never had a friendship characterized by so much positive reciprocity as the one we have with them. The last year has been a steady give and take of baked goods, dinner leftovers, impromptu meals, clothes, tools, time, embraces, emails, texts, evening phone calls, walks along Wellington, and random items like lemons and wine and matches. We've often joked that a horizontal dumb waiter between our units would be useful. But using the door works even better, I suppose, because we get to see each other that way. Liz never fails to ask about my day. And Ziad rarely cooks a new dish without bringing over a heaping helping.

When you come from a family, as I do, whose histories have been wiped out by diaspora, fire, and abandonment, you may find yourself making home with an incredible voracity. You may have a sense, deep in your belly, that you should find a tribe of your own. That you should claim the extended family that isn't yours by birthright.

This is how Adam and I see Liz and Ziad and Ella. As part of our tribe. As our people.

The wind is whipping through the treetops this morning. A cold rain is coming down sideways. And the sky is a watery white with a confusing wash of blue in the background.