I. Use of the Past Tense

It is surprisingly difficult
to begin to use the simple past
(never simple) or past perfect
(far from): like the quickly-
corrected stumbles we make
in a foreign tongue,
embarrassing ourselves; but here
not only grammar but heart
resists, yearning for the present
indicative, the continued present,
the present of ongoing action
which leads to the future.

II. Synonym

When the friend has gone,
we tend to say, “She has passed,”
“He has gone on,” “Dearly departed,”
“We have lost him,” avoiding
the straightforward reference
to death.

III. Case

In some languages each noun
possesses a case, such as ablative
or genitive, and in this case the case
would be accusative; but whom
to accuse?

IV. Number

The verb and the noun
must conform, like to like;
but what is the correct number
of loss?

V. Dangling Participle

Leaving so much hanging, those who
still live, the conversations which seem
to continue, the unasked and unanswered
questions . . .

VI. Diagrammed Sentences

I | have lost | you
| \forever

You | are lost
| \to \forever
\me

VII. Conjunction

Conjunctions show relationship.
What has been joined
may then be sundered.

VIII. Subjunctive Mode

Use of the subjunctive expresses
an idea as desirable, supposable,
conditional: Would that she were alive.
If only it were to turn out differently.
I wish she were here with us.

IX. Indefinite Relative Pronoun

Whatever happened had to happen.
Whichever treatment she sought
was inadequate. Whoever could
have believed it would end
like this?

–Lisa Rappoport

I’ve sent her webpage to all my friends.  I am a student in Muslim/Christian Relations/Islamic Studies at Hartford Seminary in Hartford, CT.  I lived and worked as a Registered Nurse in Saudi and Egypt during the ’80s.  More importantly, I grew up in New Orleans where my parents best friends were from Lebanon, had five children, and when my father died when I was twelve the father, Najib Aoun, promised my father that always I would have a home and a father.

My love for this family and for Lebanese culture and customs is beyond anything that can be measured.  I am certain that Leila will always be remembered by me and by my four Lebanese-American sisters as we enjoy Leila’s work and her recipes.

Thank you so much for allowing her legacy to live on the internet.  As one of my “sisters” said to me when I was grieving my mother’s death, “You must remember, love never dies.”

May God bless all of you with Leila’s memory.  May the remembrance of her inspire you with energy, love and commitment to carry on the work she began.

Salaam for now,

Martha Fahima Graham

I knew her only from her comments on my blog, and on the other blogs in my neighborhood.

Everything she had to say was worth paying attention to. Every time.

She was a wise woman. And a warm human being.

Those may be the two greatest compliments I can give.

I miss her.

Greenpa (Little Blog In The Big Woods)

I am so, so sorry for your loss, David, Joseph & Jacob.

Leila also told me that when she was eight and living in Mieh Mieh, after I had left Sidon she would go to our house and read our books. In particular she remembers The Three Musketeers. I read her blogs from time to time.

My condolences on her passing to her family. She was a special person with a heart for Lebanon, the Middle East and its many peoples.

Phil Hanna
Columbia, Kentucky

At the school’s pancake breakfast last spring I took this photo and sent it to her. She wrote back right away with not just a quick thanks, but with this message:

“I love it! There’s something about the pancake breakfast that just makes me really happy. School kitchen with working stove, real dishes & cutlery, Dads busy – and that the club is seventy years old! It’s the best of American community life. I was a childless bohemian for so long that this sort of thing feels like a buried part of our past recovered and refurbished. My kids just adore these school events, too. It’s old-fashioned fun at bargain prices.”

I didn’t know Leila very well, or for very long, but I wanted to. I am very sorry for her family’s loss.

And “here” she stayed. From learning to belly-dance with Leila (on our opposing beds), to taping a line down the middle of the room to demarcate her dust-bunnies and disorder from my pernsnickety neatness, to duets played on her violin and my oboe, to crazy plans to raise Palestinian and German flags in the middle of the quad, and thus irritate our Jewish friends and fellow students, to Krullers at the bakery, and late-night chats about men, friendship, parents, and what to do in life. To the easy swap we made with each other’s roommates, the safer ones (me and Peggy) going off together, while the wild Leila and Eva forged their friendship, never replacing what Leila and I had with each other, just digging deeper into issues that Peggy and I tended to view with the eyes of tourists.

Eva.  Our Pied Piper, whose music, darkness, and irony, lured us all, in the end, I truly think, to choose New York.

And there Leila and I saw each other again…after losing each other sometime after freshman year…and picked right up where we had left off.  She on East 3^rd, me on East 7^th, and then Queens. It was just natural. Her anecdotes, and life on the edge always seemed to outdo mine (and I was no slouch).  I remember a steady diet of Kraft noodles, and other crap, hoofing it first from Astor Place, and then Astoria, to work in tony places that knew nothing of my real life.

I had a crazy plan to make money with Leila, buying antique scarves in large lots, at auction, and then selling them for more. Leila wisely backed out, leaving me, rather irritated, to carry through this project (and never pick it up again, after weeks of lugging bags of scarves around Manhattan).    There were lots of other adventures; they kept going, through our first marriages, to Mo and Joseph, people we both admired for artistry, to children, and second lives, real lives, not virtual, and what we proudly thought was a rather settled existence, for self-made scrappy souls like ourselves.

Look, let me tell you, Leila is here now. I am sure of it. The first days, I cried often, in parks in Rome, on the head of my dog, on the shoulder of my daughter, into the door of my closet, on the telephone, in bed, on the back of my mate. But now I am more peaceful, because I feel Leila here with me. She has always been with me, like a sister. I talked to her a few times, long, this summer. Her last email, September 23–I want to kiss it. Her grace and mirth and generosity, her belly laugh, and shriek when something was just too outrageous, ring in my ears. She must be here. I think of her, and always have, with such immediacy. She is me, you see, like my mother, my father, my sister, my children, are me. Leila and I became people together…we had silent and raucous friendship for thirty years. This, even death cannot erase.

My family and I are here for Leila’s sons, and for her wonderful husband, and would like to let them know they’ll always have a home in Rome.

Love always, and eternally,

Cornelia

I first met her four years ago, when she brought her younger son to my first kindergarten classroom.  She was such a blessing to our classroom community–a strong, loving presence that all children responded to, and a dedicated helper when help was needed.  Throughout the year, Leila challenged me to become a better teacher through the conversations we had: she impressed me with her commitment to learning and doing everything that could be done to help her son thrive.

Leila was a passionate advocate for my classroom and my school.  She understood the inclusion model, in which children with disabilities learn in the same classroom as their typically developing peers, and she worked tirelessly to help other parents understand and appreciate it as well.  The qualities she wanted her son to develop in such a classroom–empathy, understanding, initiative, respect–were qualities she herself exemplified and brought out in others.  Even in the throes of her struggle with cancer, Leila made the time to speak for inclusion, and to speak for Tilden school, because she wanted for her sons in particular what she also wanted for our general world.  A community.  A place to grow together.

Leila’s littlest boy grows every day, and I feel blessed to still know him.  He has his mother’s beautiful curly hair and the same fierce intelligence; there are so many perfect parts of Leila still moving through the world in the bodies of her sons.  As I grieve her loss, I take comfort in knowing that Leila’s shown me exactly what she’d want me to do–to join with my community in making the world a better and more welcoming place for her children and all children.

-Sonia Thacher

By Mary Edith Bentley Abu-Saba

I meander on the beach, remembering your curls
The softness of your hair, the bounce in your step
Your stride that thrusts you way past me
Your unceasing flow of words, words, words….

I ache to see you today on the beach
To hear your streaming sentences
Your laughter at the boys chasing the sand pigeons
Your stream of opinions about the Middle East
The World, Politics, Whose In-Whose Out.

How could it happen so quickly—moving from a
Formidable force of joy, hopes, dreams and stories
To a still and somber body gasping for breath
Refusing to go quietly into The Other World?

I fantasized pulling you back, fighting to keep you here
“But her children need her!” was my argument with Fate
“She has much to say to so many people” was another
“Simply, we can’t do without her….so there!”

I walk in a dream-like state, trying to bargain still
Trying to think of just the exact thing I could have done
To twist your route toward continued abundant living
While walking with me on my path to the terrestrial garden

I wanted forty-seven more years of earthly encounters for you,
To read scores of books, and write fiercely
To argue with the obvious, To ask for the impossible
To shout your joy “Look! I am Alive!”

Silence overtook me, and finally…. I accepted.
Not easily, mind you, but with determination
To hold fast to our memories of your gleaming lights,
To love and care for those little ones you left behind.

And So Let It Be.

October 16, 2009

By Mary Edith Bentley Abu-Saba
January 15, 2007
Monterey, California: Home of Eva and Michel Nicola

Grey black curls bounce and spring
On the top of your 6-foot spire
Catching the wind and the sun
Flouncing their sassy gaity—a spectator sport.

I plunged my hand into the nest
Felt the strength of luxurious satin ribbons wind into my fingers
Sensed your life-giving affirmation:
“Yes I lost every hair in my cancer battle
Now—see here, I have prevailed
And I will survive…and yes, I have a bushel basket of Grey Curls!”

No time for lingering tears of regret
For past angst, nor future uncertainties
Too many present realities of a child’s finger to bandage
A book to be read for tomorrow’s class
A paper to be finished,
Life’s present deadlines to be met.

Laughter and streams of words build into complicated ideas
Thrown out for others to digest
Filling the spaces of Inter-being
No need for contrieved plans for entertainment
Your curls, brain, energy, laughter, tears
Nurture our Present with rich sustenance.

The genes of my body and your father’s have joined and exploded,
Becoming a modern original symphony of your making—
With big ingenious strokes from the Goddess.
You direct that symphony with well-chosen rhythms and harmonies/disharmonies
Resounding wake-up cacophonies and glowing melodies
The soft, thick tanglie curls beckon your life’s musicians to join the chorus
To form the orchestra—each of us plays our part.

So Let It Be.