Some time ago, Mum came here, to Montreal, to see me. I readied everything before her arrival. There was nothing much to do, really: I live in a tiny apartment. I did some last groceries, folded what was left of the laundry, took out the garbage, and went to the airport. I had asked Mum to bring me a rakwe for Turkish coffee, a spoon specifically for the purpose of stirring the coffee (if you’re Lebanese, you’ll know what that means), and some fnejin. During the time Mum was here, we’d wake up every morning to drink our coffee – together. Never did we miss out. But when it was too rainy or snowy to go out and tour, I’d ask Mum if she wasn’t bored, to which she’d always answer, “I came here to see you, nothing else matters.” Then I’d prepare another rakwe. My mother had crossed the globe to just sit with me, and it indeed did catch me by surprise, when on the train back to Montreal, that she’d tell me, “Home is always a person.” Mum had read the text I wrote, but never made me uncomfy about it, she never brought up any insensitive subject, or tried to corner me. Rather, she prepared food for me, filled my fridge with delights, bared my nasty temper, scrubbed the floor for me, did my laundry, a woman in her fifties who needed not do all of that – but who did – out of love – because “Nothing else matters”–. Then Mum left – my friend and I took her to the airport, and waved at her until she was past security, and I did not shed one tear, because, well – I just didn’t. But after Mum left, I never prepared Turkish coffee anymore, and I never again used the spoon she got me.