Meeting at an Airport You asked me once, on our way back from the midmorning trip to the spring: “What do you hate, and who do you love?” And I answered, from behind the eyelashes of my surprise, my blood rushing like the shadow cast by a cloud of starlings: “I hate departure . . . I love the spring and the path to the spring, and I worship the middle hours of morning.” And you laughed . . . and the almond tree blossomed and the thicket grew loud with nightingales. . . . A question now four decades old: I salute that question’s answer; and an answer as old as your departure; I salute that answer’s question . . . And today, it’s preposterous, here we are at a friendly airport by the slimmest of chances, and we meet. Ah, Lord! we meet. And here you are asking—again, it’s absolutely preposterous— I recognized you but you didn’t recognize me. “Is it you?!” But you wouldn’t believe it. And suddenly you burst out and asked: “If you’re really you, What do you hate and who do you love?!” And I answered— my blood fleeing the hall, rushing in me like the shadow cast by a cloud of starlings: “I hate departure, and I love the spring, and the path to the spring, and I worship the middle hours of morning.” And you wept, and flowers bowed their heads, and doves in the silk of their sorrow stumbled. ~ Taha Muhammad Ali (1931-2011) Taha Muhammad Ali, “Meeting at an Airport” from So What. Copyright © 2006 by Taha Muhammad Ali. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press. Source: So What (Copper Canyon Press, 2006)
