The Almond Blossom
"Every spring, the almond orchards bloom in the hills of Sebastia—and every spring, Haneen returns to her grandfather's farm, where caretaker Ziad waits with more than just flowers."
The Almond Blossom
The almonds bloomed like snow caught in air—pink and white against March sky, the most beautiful thing Palestine offered. Haneen drove up the familiar road, chest tight with anticipation.
"You came."
Ziad waited at the gate, as he had every spring for five years. Older now—fifty to her thirty-five—but still the same quiet strength.
"Did you doubt?"
"Every year." He opened the gate. "Every year I wonder if this time you won't return."
"I'll always return. The almonds need me."
"The almonds. Yes." But his eyes said something else.
The farm had been her grandfather's, left to her when he died. Ziad had stayed on, tending orchards she could only visit during blossom season.
"They're beautiful this year," Haneen said, walking between the trees.
"They're always beautiful. You just notice more when you're here."
"That sounds like a criticism."
"It's an observation." He picked a blossom, tucked it behind her ear. "Some things require presence to appreciate."
"Are we talking about almonds?"
"Are we ever?"
Five years of this dance. Spring visits, stolen moments, the unspoken thing growing like the trees themselves.
"Why do you stay?" Haneen asked one evening. "You could work anywhere."
"I stay for the almonds." Ziad's eyes held hers. "And because every March, you return. I'm a patient man, Haneen. But I'm not infinitely so."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I've loved you since your grandfather introduced us. I'm saying five springs of watching you leave is enough." He stepped closer. "Stay this time. Or tell me to stop waiting."
They came together beneath the blossoms, petals falling like blessing.
"Ya Allah," Ziad breathed against her throat. "Finally. Ya Allah, finally."
"I've been so afraid—"
"Don't be." He kissed her deeply. "I've got you. I've always had you."
He made love to her on a blanket of fallen petals, five years of patience converted to passion. Every touch said what words hadn't—I've wanted this, I've waited, I'm here.
"Ziad—I'm—"
"Let go. I'll catch you."
She let go. He caught her. And afterward, they lay tangled as petals continued to fall.
"Stay," Ziad said. "Not for a visit. Forever. Help me run the farm. Grow old among the almonds."
"I have a life in Amman—"
"You have an existence in Amman. This is a life." He kissed her forehead. "I'm not asking you to give up anything but loneliness."
"And you?"
"I'm offering everything I have." His smile was soft. "Almonds, patience, and a heart that's been yours for five years."
Haneen looked at the orchard—her grandfather's legacy, the man who'd kept it alive, the life that had been waiting.
"Na'am," she said. "But I'm keeping my apartment in Amman. For when the almonds drive me crazy."
"They won't. But deal."
Above them, the blossoms continued their brief, beautiful existence—transient, perfect, worth every moment of waiting.
Just like love.