For years, this day has lost its usual sparkle in my heart, carrying nothing but sorrow and pain for my soul.

I pray with all selfishness for it to be erased from the calendar, or at least for its night to vanish from this world, and for its daylight to shorten.

I spend hours behind the windowpane, begging for support from the eyes of passersby, seeking solace in my fragility. I dream of hearing, as I did in the past, the gentle whispers of my little boys conspiring, choosing a Mother’s Day gift.

I reproach the Elderflowers in front of my house, how do they bloom and not care about this overwhelming absence? How do they bloom, and they bear witness to everything that has happened and is happening within the walls of this house. Then I forgive them when I see them reaching out with love, searching for them like me, behind the beloved windows of their rooms on the second floor.

These flowers that took part in packing the suitcases and smiled coyly at me when they saw me reopening the bags emptying, and rearranging their contents over and over again, secretly from my family.

The suitcases that carried my dreams and hopes, I closed their weary zippers for the last time.

I never denied the share that life has in my sons, nor did I ever dare to steal its rights to them. But I never expected it to snatch them away from the warmth of my embrace this early – causing my spirit to wither at the age of forty-five – yearning to rescue them from a war that has thrown everyone in tides of confusion.

Should we hold our children and keep them close, shielding them from the agony of exile and refuge? Or should we strive with all our strength to distance them from our hearts into the icy embrace of those distant lands?

Both options are harsh, and the sweeter of the two is bitter.

The joy of college acceptances, tainted by sorrow.

The relief of arriving safely, accompanied by tears of fear from the unknown.

The holiday sweets dipped in the bitterness of the distance.

Our simple surgeries – my husband and I – became a painful ordeal, without the comfort of their gentle touch or a kiss on a longing forehead.

The news of excellence and success mixed with my suffocated joyful shouts, transmitted through a trivial device, freeing feelings that had long been imprisoned. A father pretending to be strong, unaware that I silently share his tears and sleepless nights.

This father, who suffered from back pain early on, and who made us all laugh when he jokingly says, “I no longer need to worry about the gas cylinder, I have two strong men.”

We didn’t know that having two sons in one family, in this corner of the world, would place us on the edge of a sharp knife. We had no choice but to distance ourselves from it if we wanted to escape being forced into a war where one becomes either a killer, a victim, or robbed of spirit if one remains alive.

When we decided, before the war, to sell our old house to build our current home, the dream house – as we called it – it took nearly a year to draw up the architectural plans. We moved its walls from one place to another, changing the details and colours. How many nights did these plans occupy our family, imprinting their ink on our very beings?

How not? And it is the dream house, the nest of our cozy family that would welcome generations of descendants.

The house that took four years to build, and after its completion, became a marvel for relatives and friends. Yet, despite its spaciousness, it was sometimes too small to fit everyone during sleepovers. I would see them in the morning, sprawled on even the tiny sofas with their youthful bodies, and I would joke, saying, “The smell is awful, open the windows.”

If only I’d foreseen the future, I would’ve preserved their beloved scents as rare perfume. I would’ve gathered the fallen strands of hair on their colourful pillows and woven them into a scarf that would warm the icy void of their absence.

A numbness creeps through my leg.

I abandon my window and my Elderflowers, dragging a chair and sitting at the kitchen table. This table no longer charms me, despite its beauty. A small corner of it – half the space or less – is enough for me and my husband, to quickly consume our meals, leaving the rest of the space for the absent ones.

A sudden thought flashes in my mind. The bountiful seasons are near, and maybe the markets are overflowing with fresh broad beans and peas. I shake my head. How does that concern me? And for whom?

But what if a country were to grant us the honour of reuniting with our children on its soil? You can put the word “honour” between millions of parentheses. Yes, maybe. But where would I find the provisions that?

The idea awakens the slumbering memories within me. I will fill my kitchen cabinets with their favourite foods, and I will eagerly await the season of (Makdous). I will make plenty of it because it is their favourite, along with (Shanklish) and the (Kareesha) (Cottage cheese), nanny’s (Kareesha), as we call it in our family.

Nanny? She is my mother, also absent for a year and a half now. Her departure was the final straw that drained my soul, robbing this holiday of its beautiful moments.

After her passing, I planted a small cypress tree and named it after her “Maryam”. I talk to it and share with its tender branches my complaints and worries. This summer, I will move it to the garden of our rural home. I will entrust it with our walnut trees, which my husband planted in the names of our children, Fadi and Ward. And I will hide for them the first fruits of the season, ten nuts that we have yet to taste.

We completed the construction of our rural house in the summer of 2011. Back then, shells were ravaging the days and nights of Homs. Families began to return to their villages, seeking safety and comfort. And like everyone else, we did the same. Perhaps the village would become our permanent residence. With that in mind, we rallied our spirits and completed everything with utmost speed, forgetting or deliberately ignoring everything that was happening beyond the boundaries of this peaceful place.

Now what?
This beautiful house, with its tiled roof lined with wood, and its blue stones that comfort me despite their roughness, and its graceful wooden swing, swinging between the chinaberry trees… It brings joy to everyone except them. I rejoice in my guests, but I miss my kids.

I pretend to be patient and thank God that they are well, and that we live under the same sky, with one sun and one moon. I thank God because Fadi found Purslane he loves in the vegetable boxes in Germany, and because Ward told me with joy how the Homsy Alsafwi Halawa sits on the shelves of Arab stores there.

Oh God… how causes for our happiness have shrunk to such little things!

I returned to my window seeking solace as this exhausting day neared its end. The branches of the Elder tree swayed before me, and amidst the greenness of its leaves, I spotted a girl stealing my flowers, I moved back a little to let her enjoy her crime in peace.

The sound of the bell startled me. I opened the door, only to be surprised by the same girl, holding a bouquet of my white flowers, offering them to me and saying, “Happy birthday! These are from Fadi and Ward. Can I hug you for them?”