The sky above Amman

The sky above Amman is pretty enough to make you cry,
the kind that leaves you asking deep, human questions about how it all got there and why.
A hot wind from the south blows and scatters enough Arabian dust into the air to make everything wildly orange and pink,
a kaleidoscope sky filled in flawlessly with heaven’s sultry, soft sunset ink.

The ocean of sand-white buildings on Jabal Amman are now bathed in the technicolored wonder of a warm, fading sun.
Rainbow Street is, at least for now, exactly what its name suggests:
a tapestry of color and evening clamor that dares even the most stolid soul to dream a little, live a little, and take a breath of what it feels like to feel joy.
Cafés bursting out onto narrow sidewalks resound into the growing shroud of night.
Boisterous students taking refuge near the sweet fragrance of sprawling jacaranda.
Caffeine and conversation easily conquering young hearts on a Friday evening.

Away from the glee of busy streets and cafes, a more refined and decorous Amman takes its bow.
Eucalyptus and cedar line walkways and shroud antique villas filled with history and boutique furniture that I will always admire and never afford.
The trees rise like a line of dabke dancers frozen in the middle of a single rhythmic leap.
When I am far from here, these are the images that my memory will most readily keep.
This is the place I will, if I’m lucky, dream about in my sleep.

Amman is like a well-placed spray of cardamon in the sky. 
The smell of the spice stays with you when you leave Al-Madina’s gaping souq.
It climbs up into your nostrils and enchants you with each breath,
until it is absorbed into your blood and becomes a part of you.
It reminds you of where you have been, and perhaps where you really belong.

They say that Amman is one of the oldest cities in the world.
In fact it lies perpetually suspended in time.
It is old.
It is new.
It is Jabal Al Weibdeh and it is Abdoun.
And there are old ladies with memories longer than they’ve been alive who insist that their Amman has left its chrysalis too soon.
  
Perhaps it has.
Perhaps the poetry will fade with each luxury home hastily erected in Al Rabia.
Or maybe the dynamism of a fluid, changing Amman will make it more fully what it has always been.
Like the murals adorning walls up and down the city of stairs—
bold and beautiful for a minute, until wiped clean and made ready for a new story to be told.
Looking out towards this city that makes up in feeling what it lacks in gold.