THE FALLING LEAF OF HEAVEN
by Reem Rashash Shaaban

“I wonder whose leaf will fall this year,” said my mother pulling back the curtains and looking out into the garden whose trees were almost naked in the cold winter air. She pointed at a lone leaf falling to the ground. I shivered inside as I watched the brown leaf settle on the untrodden snow.

It is said that in the middle of the second holiest Muslim month, Shaaban, the leaves of the tree of heaven start falling. As I imagine them, these leaves flutter down slowly, floating in the breeze to land on the soft bed of grass or cloud below. (I like to think that Heaven lies on a bed of clouds). These leaves are not just any leaves. They  are special, for each leaf contains the name of a person that will die within the coming year. How big is this tree that it should contain the names of all the people in the world that will soon depart I wonder? I see the leaves of different colors, all falling slowly, dancing their last ballet, enjoying their last frolic before they join their final bedfellows. Do they lie on top of one another; do they wither and dry? I looked at my mother whose veil cast a shadow on her fair face.  I could not help but marvel at how beautiful she was. Unfortunately, I looked nothing like her. I had inherited my father’s dark looks, proof that my mother loved him very much.

“I hope no one we know has lost his leaf.” I said, hugging her tight.

I had already lost my father to the “unmentionable” disease the year before.

“Come Khaldoun, let us have breakfast; you must eat before you go to school.”

We walked into the warm kitchen that smelled of cooked kishk, a gravy-like mixture made of dried yoghurt and cracked wheat in which small pieces of minced meat were swimming. Tea boiled in the kettle and I could almost taste the sweet jam and pickled eggplants that decorated the small plates. I sat on the rug and proceeded to break a piece of bread, twist it, dip it into olive oil and then into the bowl of dried thyme. Its bittersweet taste filled my mouth and warmed my stomach.

"Mother,” I asked, tearing another piece of bread, "what happens when a person dies?”

She sat down,  crossed her legs and poured tea into transparent cups. I repeated my question.

“Why he goes to heaven to meet God,” she said placing a few olives in her plate.

“But how does he go up when he’s buried in the ground?”

“My son; the body is nothing. It is the soul that rises to meet its Maker.”

“But Ziad says that if you are a bad person your soul hits its head on the gravestone and cannot rise. It                   remains in darkness till judgment day. He says only good people have well-lit graves.”

“My dear,” my mother reassured me, “no one who has died has ever come back. We cannot be sure about          what happens when we die.”

She handed me my cup of tea now that it had cooled.

“But, mother—"

“Hurry up and eat or you’ll be late for school. Eat some thyme so you can become intelligent and do well.”

“I have a math test today. Pray for me mother.”

She opened her palms, looked up and called upon God, whispered a short prayer, and blew the final words into my face.

“There now; God will help you succeed.”

My mother was so wise. Everyone came to her if they had problems. She would read the grounds in their coffee cups and tell them about their futures. I looked at the clock on the wall.

“I’m late.” I shrieked, getting up.

In my haste I set my teacup on the edge of the sink. It twirled, lost its balance and fell to the tile floor, breaking into a hundred pieces. I looked up at my mother cringing, expecting her to shout at me. Instead, she tapped me on the shoulder and said,

“Do not worry, my son. The evil has broken. Spilled coffee or tea is a good omen. Go with God.”

She pulled me to her and gave me a squeeze and a kiss.

***

That afternoon, as I was walking back from school, kicking the loose pebbles into the snow at the edge of the path, I bet my cousin Ziad that I could kick my stone the farthest. He laughed and ran ahead of me. I followed. Suddenly he stopped, pointing in the direction of our house,

“Look Khaldoun; something’s wrong.”

I gazed at the wall that surrounded our new house. Though it had been built by my grandfather, it stood majestic. Surrounded by the trees my grandmother had planted, it was a king in the middle of the village. Even from a distance I could see that the yard was sprinkled with people all dressed in black, an army of ants invading a picnic lunch. My heart fell. It was probably grandmother; she had high blood pressure. Maybe she was sick. Worse; maybe she had died. I ran the last hundred meters to the gate where a tall young man stopped me and lifted me up.

“Wait son, don’t go in now.”

“Let me go,” I screamed, twisting in his arms.

Who was this man who dared touch me? I had just gotten ready to bite his thick fingers when my grandmother’s face appeared between them. I closed my mouth, relieved that my grandmother was fine. The man slowly loosened his grip and lowered me to the ground.

"Ya sitti, grandmother. What’s wrong?"

I looked at my grandmother’s face and noticed that her eyes were puffed and red. I had never seen her that way. It then dawned on me that someone was missing.

“Yama, yama, mother,” I screamed, “Where are you?”

“Ya sitti, my dear grandson, slowly. I will take you to her.”

Grandmother took my hand and led me into the sitting room. There was something different about it even though very little had changed. The sofas looked darker as if they wore frowns. The sobya, or heater was off and the room was cold. I took off my shoes and tiptoed, afraid that I would awaken my mother. She was obviously sleeping in the room.

“What’s wrong? Is mama sick? Does she have one of her headaches? I won’t bother her. I just want to tell her that I did well on the test.”

The bedroom door creaked open when my grandmother pushed it and there was mother, covered in a white sheet. I felt my heart in my knees as I ran to the bed.

“Why have you covered her face? She won’t be able to breathe!”

I frantically tried to uncover her face, but the white cloth was thicker than that of her veil and it had been tied above her head.

“She’ll die!” I screamed. “She’ll die! Remove it I tell you.”

Hands pulled me away; I kicked. Tears fell; I let them. I looked up at God and wailed, banging my hands against my head. I suddenly saw my mother standing in front of the living room window pointing to a brown leaf. The leaf swung back and forth then slowly bowed to gravity and stretched on the newly fallen snow

“Yama, yama,” I screamed, “the leaf was yours.”