A Parting Gift

I have a plant that for two years has never bloomed.

But about a week ago, a ball-like orange flower appeared atop the plant's bushy leaves. Like a spray of fireworks in the night sky.

Now there are twelve blooms on this plant.

A parting gift? This is what I'm thinking.

In late June I'll leave this place I love, Abu Dhabi, knowing full well I may never come back and that regardless, life will go on here after I'm gone. At the risk of sounding morbid, it reminds me a little of death: that's how it is for people who know they're not long for this world and are cognizant of the fact that their loved ones will get up the day after their demise. Their favorite people will move on, as they should, despite their absence.

What will happen to my flowers, I ask myself in the middle of the night. The petunias, which have outlasted most in the city, as well as the impatiens, I will toss lest they wither and become an eyesore for my neighbors. The bougainvillea and my cycads tree,"Jameel," (forgive spelling), which is Arabic for "beautiful," will go to my Emirati friend, Manaal (not her real name).

When I see Manaal lately she asks, "How is you jameel?" and I answer, "You mean how is your jameel," and we laugh. Other things, like hair dryers and kettles, I will just give away. I'm no good at garage sales and the like.

It's not all sad and bad, though. As we get closer to our leave date, my mind is full of the smells of home: the beginning of spring, with the air cool and clean and mild after a long winter, which always make me feel a surge of freedom and energy; the evergreen trees around my New Hampshire home; the dark, wet earth in my hands when I dig holes for news plants and move others around for the coming season; the fresh air coming through the window in the morning as I lay in bed or stand at the kitchen sink washing a pot.

I am distracted and unable to concentrate lately. I flit from task to task like a fly. I give away clothes the kids have outgrown, throw away unnecessary papers, and purchase things we cannot get anywhere but here. I trade recipes with ladies from other countries and try to see friends one more time before we go. I attend the children's school activities and shuttle them to social/academic events.

When I see Manaal, I say let's not talk about my imminent departure. This is chiefly because I don't know when and if I will ever see her again. (I have this feeling in general and all the time, that we don't know what tomorrow will bring and if the people we love will be with us/alive next year).

We touch on a variety of subjects, but naturally the conversation returns to my leave date. She stops talking, looks away. Her kohl-outlined eyes are full of water. I look away too, for a moment, and then one of us changes the subject.

The First Abu Dhabi Good-Bye

Last Thursday afternoon, in equal parts disbelief and denial, I sat in a metal chair beside the nurse's desk at Khalifa Urgent Care Clinic in Abu Dhabi.

"What brings you here?" an unsmiling nurse asked me.

"I was riding. I fell off a horse," I said, showing her the swollen middle finger on my left hand.

"Your first time?" she asked.

I began to feel as if I were in the confessional.

"No, I've ridden for a while," I said. "I broke my right arm in February - also falling off a horse."

"Not a very good rider," she said.

"You could say that," I said, nodding my head. I'd earned that one: my left middle finger turned out to be broken.

I had broken my right arm two months ago, in February. When I got the cast off after six long weeks, I told myself I wouldn't ride again. The healing process had been more difficult than I'd anticipated.

But over subsequent days, even as I decided to quit riding forever, the demands on my time/energy were mounting. Our eldest needed advice on which college he should attend. The mail needed sorting, the house needed de-cluttering, and the younger boys needed to organize play-dates. The height of the laundry began to rival the Hajar Mountains.

My inner self yearned for something just for me.

I got the okay from my doctor for riding, and I set up a private lesson. Sitting on the slowest horse in the stables, I was exuberant to be back in the saddle.

"I haven't that much fun in a long time," I told M that evening, smiling for the first time in weeks.

Last Thursday, my horse made an abrupt stop while cantering. I went over his head and onto the ground. I didn't do anything wrong, my teacher said. But accidents happen. My finger was killing me. I didn't yet know it was broken, but I knew I had to quit this sport.

I looked at my riding instructor. I felt very sad as I began my first Abu Dhabi good-bye.

I wished this gentle man much happiness and success in life, with his job, with his wife and his new baby. He wasn't a personal friend, but I liked him very much. His workday began at 6 a.m. every day except Friday. He grew up in Morocco, where his father had been a showjumping trainer. He was endlessly patient and an excellent rider himself. He spoke Arabic, French and English - sometimes all three in one lesson.

Over the time I knew him, I'd enjoyed hearing about his baby: it was the one area where I felt I could return the favor and offer him advice. I was leaving Abu Dhabi this summer. I knew I'd never see him again.

I mumbled good-bye and left, saving my tears for the car ride home.

Abu Dhabi Days Are Passing

This picture - of a setting sun near my home in Abu Dhabi - seems to capture my mood of late.

Perhaps it's the shortened days as we approach the winter equinox. Maybe it's that Christmas is two weeks away, and soon it will be the end of another year.

It could also be due to a discussion about family life I enjoyed yesterday in my home, an experience I know I cannot duplicate in the U.S. It was during my book club. I was one of two Americans in a group of nine women.

"We are both from Africa," my friend from Sudan said to my friend from South Africa when they were introduced. There was also a friend from Switzerland, one from England, two friends from Wales and one from Jordan. It was terrific.

Whatever the reason, I'm increasingly aware that our time in Abu Dhabi is going fast. Before I know it, next summer will be here. I'll be standing in a room full of brown boxes, sighing as I think how bare the walls are without our prints hanging. We'll be moving home. This is something I long for and dread at the same time.

Last weekend my eight-year-old was accidentally hit in the head with a hockey stick. When I first saw his handsome blond face, his nose and mouth bloody, my heart did a leap. I thought the skin under his nose was cut straight through to his mouth.

I get strangely calm when my children are hurt, but as I wiped his cuts and discovered they were not serious, alarms still rang in my head. I wished we were home. I've made two visits to emergency rooms with my children thus far in Abu Dhabi, and the care was excellent both times. But I still wished I were in my own country.

Of course the main pull towards home is missing friends and family. Recently, too, one of my best friends back home experienced a tremendous loss. The distance between Abu Dhabi and New Hampshire was heart-wrenching. These are the times I long to blink my eyes and open them to see pine trees and snow.

Most days, though, I like Abu Dhabi so much I know it will break my heart to leave. When my ten-year-old tells me about the nice boy from Yemen he's made friends with, or my 16-year-old arrives home, as he did yesterday, energized by a school competition in Cairo, I think I could stay forever.