“Not so deep, Habibi,” Teta says, poking the dirt with her finger. “Roots need to breathe too, you know.” Sunlight pours through the kaleidoscope walls, wrapping us and the plants in a fiery embrace. Its touch almost reaches my face, but fades into a silhouette behind the array of greenery. I watch as Teta tenderly pats soil over each of the little flowers. The scent of sweat and earth, laced with a perfume that is like flowers or candy, clings to Teta as she bends over the tomatoes. She reaches for each one with her raisin hands like they are special. I feel special in Teta’s greenhouse. It is our safe place, it belongs to us. When I stand still long enough, the greenhouse forgets what it is and becomes something else. Philo says that it is a secret time machine that keeps rare things safe. I imagine sunset moths that spin in the air and lily pads like the moon. Sweet plums that bleed red watercolor sunsets and big big orchids like umbrellas. I try to find them, but I touch the little flowers instead. My hands look for magic, but they only know what is real. The hot air overtakes my lungs. It calms me. I wish to sleep here forever, among the plants. With a red tomato face and daffodils for eyes and legs as long as green leaves and hair like wild beet roots. And I want to be a little flower too. Teta is beautiful and graceful like a swan. She dyes her hair red with box dye each morning, puts on a floral dress, and draws the corners of her eyes with black liner. She drinks tea in a glass, not a mug. That is her rule. I want to have my own rules too. She gently trickles the soil with her tin watering can. She sings in Arabic—the language of rosewater fountains. Even the curses sound beautiful. I try to mimic her, but the throaty words wobble and crackle sideways out of my lips. Velvet clouds begin to darken, and drops of rain patter against the glass. But we are safe. She laughs, and then smiles at me. In this green jungle of lush, my grandma’s favorite fruit is the mango. As each one makes a plop sound into the straw basket, they create their own drumbeat. When Teta talks about fruit, she always ends up talking about herself. She turns to me and opens her mouth like she is going to say something. She doesn’t. Then she says, “I wrote a poem about mangoes once.” She chuckles. “It’s true. I wrote: “mangoes are the fruit of the gods.” I repeat it to myself:
Mangoes are the fruit of the gods…
“Good. You know, I wanted to become an author when I was young. Yes. I would write about everything I saw, everywhere I went. I would read books and books and books. Just like you. I would hide away.” I follow her, putting each mango into the basket. I try to be as gentle as her, but that is impossible. “It’s a shame, you know. I wanted to be Charles Dickens, or Oscar Wilde. My father said: “become a pharmacist.” Teta is destined to write prescriptions, to write recipes, to write with water on soil. But never to write a book. She smiles, but her eyes are distant. “I cried for days. Locked myself in my room. But you. You can write to melt steel. It is your gift, Habibi. Don’t let go of it.” She gives me what she cannot keep. “Roots need to breathe too, you know. We are both little flowers, you and me.”