How could that man think that way? His words lashed me like a whip. “You’re a girl with no upbringing whatsoever. No mother and no father!” Even my grandmother didn’t defend me. She didn’t say she raised me. She was trembling of him.
So, what about the marjoram then? My aunt’s husband might beat me, defame me and forbid me to go back to Beirut! Where will I get some marjoram? Should I look around for a family garden in the vicinity? Do Beiruti people plant basil and marjoram like us? Or don’t things requiring tender love and care figure into their everyday lives?
Shall I venture outside now for the sake of a sprig of marjoram? No wonder the first few letters spell “mar”—bitter—because when we eat it, we feel that initial bitterness. Then the bitterness turns into something which strikes
