like a story. like she knew her roots, her distance in growing. it was a middle eastern restaurant. but she was greek, turkish perhaps. this was her restaurant. she is here in pittsburgh. we are here in pittsburgh always and we don’t know why.
i was in her restaurant. it was quiet. it was so quiet it felt like making a sound was disturbing. & so we all kept our conversation to a dull hum. by we all i mean the three tables, each with only two people. couples. we pair ourselves off in two. when you dance an eastern european dance, you dance with everyone exchanging hands, holding them together and in a circle. so much happens in people in a circle.
she was walking about the restaurant by herself alone with her hands clasped together behind her back so that they created an oval. she did not smile but seemed satisfied at each couple quietly absorbing their hummus, falfel. lamb that does not come on a stick but would if we were across the world. lamb here not roasted on a spit, but there, roasted on a spit and turning turning in a circle. the world is constantly rotating on an axis in a circle. this is easy, this is demure. this is the way the world works without us trying.
she has come here from afar, i’m sure. i can hear her accent by the front door. we are all always traveling so far.
why is it we make the struggle so hard?