Harvest Season — unootha

MAITHA ALSUWAIDI

And when we finally managed to have our first coherent, back-and-forth conversation, it was about the number of speed bumps in our neighborhood. A conversation so dry. Yet, we scrambled to pick up the ends of each other’s sentences like loose threads dangling at the hem of an incomplete knitted shirt. You have recently decided to take a different route home – one that was slightly longer but contained only five speed bumps compared to the fourteen dreadful ones in the route we grew up taking. I remember converting to your route ever since you showed it to me that one Friday night when you offered to drive us home early because our relatives were talking about autism in a way that deflated my soul. Around six months later, I decided to time myself driving through both your route and our childhood route; yours took me six minutes and eleven seconds, and our childhood route was only five and twenty-five seconds. As I write this, I realize that it didn’t really matter to me which route is faster, because I, like you, prefer the noiseless, bump-less, scenic route. So, I continue to elongate my trips home.

You’re funny when you try to be. And you’re caring when you want to be. I admire that about you. I also admire that you don’t try hard to impress our mother, and I think your nonchalance ironically impresses her. Or maybe it is because you are a boy, so you never had to try all that much. But she intimidates me. I like to believe that I am a very persuasive speaker, but when I am debating her, I am thirteen again, battling an undiagnosed anxiety disorder larger and heavier than my entire life back then. I do not know how it happens every single time, but I stumble over my words like an inexperienced performer on a unicycle.

What I admire the most about you is that you, so naturally and comfortably, live by the principle of abundance, and I don’t even think you know it. You’re so satisfied: with your high-school-now-college friendships, the sub-par coffee shops close to home, your short-lived hobbies (you often get so good at them so fast that they bore you, and so you abandon them for a new one), your restless, noisy Jeep that somehow always needs to be serviced, and your selective and satisfied attachment to the familial dynamic we’ve had since we were both teenagers (you are still one, but I am no longer). Every day, I panic because something is not enough for me, and that often spirals to me feeling insufficient for myself. But then I see you, and you’re so happy, and satisfied, and settled at eighteen, and I want to scream. I am once again jealous of you.

After you’ve left for military service, you call me one random Friday morning, when I am in the dorms, getting ready to spend a restful – as restful as I can force it to be – day in the city. We never talk, brother, not even when we lived in the same house. Yet, you call me. You ask me if I’m doing alright. I offer my response, a swift “yes”, with a rigid tone. I ask you if you are being treated well. You reassure me that it’s not as bad as every other man who’d gone to the service made it out to be. I ask you if the leg you’ve recently broken is doing okay. You say that it is a little swollen, but that you know how to get what you want when you want it, so the painkillers and the restful hours at the nurse’s office are coming in abundance. I ask you if the food’s alright. Beans, bread, and rice, you tell me. So what you’ve been eating since you turned vegan. I laugh but choke on a couple of tears that betray me. Your time is almost over, so you have to leave. Our goodbyes are rushed and quite awkward. I cry for a few minutes after our call, and I am suddenly so aware of all the time we wasted being jealous and disapproving of each other.

May 2021 is the first dates harvest season I witness. I’ve lived here my whole life. I have floated through twenty harvest seasons before this one, but this is the first and only one I notice. The day I took that two-hour drive home from college (for the very last time), I laugh and then I cry when I notice the palm tree next to our home’s blue and white gate. It is ripe. The harvest is protected by the green fabric wrapping, preventing the ripe dates from falling to the ground. Then, I notice the palm tree next to it. And then I notice the one next to that one. And for the next few weeks, I notice every single tree I drive by. I notice the ones with the droopy leaves. I notice the ones that don’t have the green fabric protectively embracing its harvest. I notice the barren ones. I notice the newly planted ones.

May 2021 is the first time I witness you, too. You are in the process of completing your first semester in college, and you are a fully functioning human being. You study on your own, you go to exams, you go out with friends afterwards to celebrate. You enjoy coffee, exploring peculiar soft drink options in gas stations, and driving your loud Jeep late into the night. You play the same Japanese song every time our younger brothers get in the car with you. You absolutely love children, and I have come to believe that you will one day be a passionate, present father. You live in so much abundance, with or without me. And I do notice all of that beauty you carry, uphold, and offer now. I am sorry it took me eighteen years to do so.

Maitha AlSuwaidi is an NYU Abu Dhabi alumna with a degree in Political Science and a minor in Creative Writing. She is a writer, spoken word poet, and performance artist. She started writing stories and poetry at the age of nine and today, she hopes to tackle topics she is passionate about like mental health and childhood through writing articles and essays or through writing poetry and performing spoken word in various venues. She has previously performed in Rooftop Rhythms, NYC’s Bowery Poetry Club, and the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. In performance art, she was a lead actress in a 2020 production of bilingual poetry titled “Al Raheel / Departure”, commissioned by the Cultural Foundation and NYUAD Arts Center. She loves to rave about childhood, healing, and makeup looks! You can find her on Twitter (@maithaAHS) and Instagram (@mai.thah).

Edited by Halima Zaghbib