After dinner I sat with Salimeh.  She is lovely. Really. I know she doesn't feel it because when I tried to take a picture with her she was not happy.  Her face became sad and she said "Mish Helu [Not nice]."  

Tonight, though, as she lay in bed, I came beside her and we talked.  We talked about as much as my limited arabic would allow.  She is one of the few who can hear well.  That means we could talk a normal volume.  This makes the conversation much more pleasant.  

She wears a scarf on her head, probably to keep the decency of her beauty. I can tell that once she was gorgeous. You can see it in her aged face and in the dignity of her eyes. 

Last night I walked with Ad'lene again. She asked me (for about the 6th time that day) if I wanted to go. "She want to walk? You want to, you and me, walk?" 

After finally receiving the affirmative, she went directly for her sweater.  We linked arms, min being the sturdy-er, and proceeded to tiny-step our way outside. 

"It's cold!" she shivered.

"It's nice," I said. 

Earlier she pointed out that her arms are white and mine are black. "Not black," I replied. "Maybe brown. . . " and we laughed.  Slowly we made our way, arm-in-arm, past the row of yellow, pink, white, red, purple, and green.  I love the flowers here. My very favorite are Yasmine—Jasmine—for the strength and resilliance of their fragrance.  I am sure Yasmine will be forever Taybeh in my memory.  Sometimes I pick one as I walk by and give it to my companion, whoever that might be.  One day I made all the people I encountered smell the small white flower.  The other day I put one in Ad'lene's pocket.  I hope it smells sweet in death.

We talked in arabic mixed with english (araiizi, I call it).  Ad'lene rarely gets her pronouns right, so usually I don't understand what she's saying.  "My sister he want to go here. When you come he go to Beirzeit.  You want to go with me."  She wanted me to go with her to Beirzeit with her and her sister. I can't say much in arabic, so our conversations get confusing and repetitive.  We both come out okay anyway.  Sometimes Ad'lene talks so much and so much of it I can't understand, I get frustrated.  Tonight was lovely, though.  

After walking little by little half way up the big Beit Afram hill she began to hum—surprisingly in tune—something that reminded me of Beethoven's 5th Symphony.  We sang out beautiful notes for a short while, turned, and steadily made our return.  The two smaller dogs pranced around and on us, livening up the walk.  I do appreciate those dogs. 

Last night Tito, the mangiest of them all, the big one that limps and has yet to be rid of his winter coat, lay down beside me.  He came over and presistantly nudged me.  He reminds me a lot of a wolf, an I would say he's maybe a cayote but for the winter fur, maybe not.  He likes to sleep belly up and legs sprawled just outside Beit Afram's front door. 

The other do, Lucy (according to me) or Lassie (according to the neighbors) or Tito (according to Abouna Dominik), is most people's favoriet.  Her small frame is less imposing, and her black fur hides how dirty she probably is.  She behaves herself and gets more inside privileges than the others.  Abouna calls her in during meals and feeds her scraps.  One of the sisiters gave her a bath and brushed her.  Another resident, Aziyye, doesn't like her.  She shouts "Barra! [Out!]" and throws water on the spunky little dog.

The smallest of the three, Max (also called Tito by Abouna), is just a puppy.  He is tan with a few accenting dark brown patches on his face.  He tumbles around with the other tow, usually playing with Lucy, but sometimes nipping at Tito.  He behaves well for a puppy and certianly gives me joy and company on a lonely day. 

I wonder if Abouna Dominik (Father Dominik) had a dog named Tito at another time in his life.  There must be some reason why he calls three dogs by the same name when he can express most ideas in at least three languages.  Abouna studied Arabic for 20 years (though he told me it's a less than useful language), is Italian, and speaks English.  He always wears his priestly garb—a black robe, long sleeved, with black pants, black socks, back shoes, and usually a round black hat.  His large glasses give him buggy eyes and his fair complexion makes the habit dramatic.

All day long he prays.  I come up in the morning between 7-7:45 and he's sitting silently praying.  I arrive back from camp at 2:30 and he's praying.  I walk around before dinner and again I see him handling the beads of his rosary, praying.  I like to speak with him and I told him that I'd like to pray all the time too.

The other man in the home I know, Sammi, is usually confined all day to his wheelchair.  Yesterday I turned a corner only to see him, propped by Muniir, shuffling along down the hallway.  I rushed to him, smiling. "You're walking! Mabruk! [Congratulations!]" I cried. 

For him to see me I have to put my face directly in front of his own—he can't turn his neck.  I love to do this because it gives me a change to look at his eyes.  I bend over and with a louder-than-normal voice I say "Kiffak? [How are you?]." As soon as I'm in front of him a broad, toothy smile crosses his face.  His brown irises are beginning to turn blue on the rims—I think he's going blind.  Sometimes I grab his hands, sing a little tune, and lead him in some motions.  We clap afterwards, our laughter ringing in the foyer: mine young and full, his gruff, breathy, and little.  Some how though his laugh is small, it is also great. Like the triumph of a child standing.

Yesterday I cried at breakfast with Heluweh.  Her name means sweet, and so she probably was.  When I come into her room she looks at me without smiling, but usually nods her head.  She stretches out her bony hand, the clear skin loose and wrinkled, for me to hold.  I feed her bits of bread softened by warm milk.  After turning off the crackly television program (usually a recorded Catholic Mass with a children's chior singing out of tune), I sing.  I sing whatever songs come to mind, mostly ones that my mom sang me to sleep with when I was smaller (sometimes she still sings me to sleep with them).  

Song after song I am moved by emotion.  

I sang Masterpice.  While looking at her old, pained face with misplaced dark hairs growing in places hey shouldn't, and dysfunctional, dying body, I saw a creation of God. I wondered, "Is this what God designed for us?" 

My voice cracked. 

I sang Down in the Valley and hoped for the knowledge of love to reach this dying woman, too decrepit to feed herself. I stopped again and again, unable to go on for the emotion caught in my throat.