I imagine you and teta* safely tucked away in the Chouf mountains, far away from the uncertainty of Beirut and the polluting noise of Simkanieh; past the old petrol store and the village mansion; sitting among the grapes, plums and pomegranates, on the patio of your three-storey house.
I can picture you greeting each morning in comfortable monotony, teta pouring the Argentinian mate tea while you stoop over your new pocket radio that blares the old Arabian greats.
Or so I imagine! You haven’t told me yet whether you got the radio I sent or whether you like it.
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to cotton on to the years of your diplomatic hinting…