Elegy for Faris Bouhafa
I’ve been offline for a while. It was a sad summer, and now it is turning into a sad fall as well. I’ve just gotten back from spending some time in DC with my sister, whose husband died on Sept. 8 of complications following major surgery for lung cancer.
I wrote a poem about my brother-in-law, Faris Bouhafa, on the plane going to DC, and I wanted to post it here. Also, you can read more about his life at www.bouhafa.com. He was a unique individual, who blended a passion for rock music with a passion for politics and peace activism, not to mention a passion for good food and fiery hot peppers. His passing leaves a void that will be hard to fill.
In July my family and I spent 9 days with my sister and brother-in-law in Tunisia, where his father’s family originated. The poem refers to that time.
Farewell Song
In Sidi Bou Said
we wandered steep paths
through the blue and white town
as you pointed out hidden beauties,
childhood haunts.
Flower sellers called their wares.
You bought woven petals for our hair,
led us to a narrow shop of perfumes
where we dabbed our wrists with delicate scents –
Secrets of Carthage, Tunisian Nights –
aromas that lingered on skin like memory.
Climbing to a historic café
that clung to the hillside like a held breath
above the picture-perfect bay,
we turned a deaf ear to your cough,
your uphill breathlessness.
Instead, we sipped aromatic tea flecked with pine nuts
that drifted like lost boats on an amber sea,
listened to your stories of teenage years,
left the tea leaves with their future unread.
Later, at the seaside restaurant
where waves strummed the beach
and we toasted the night with Tunisian wine,
who among us dared acknowledge
the shadow at the edge of the moon,
the dark undertone limning our laughter?
The night we left Tunisia
there were final hugs, a flurry of thanks,
promises to meet again.
But as my children hurled themselves into your arms
I saw how you staggered slightly.
Long after our taxi turned the corner
leaving our Tunisian interlude behind,
we waved our goodbyes into the black predawn,
syllables of farewell strung out behind usl
ike stars, those flaming bodies
extinguished long before, still kindling the night.
Faris, yours was a song cut off on a high note.
But the years you lived still resonate,
a rich chord strummed across our days:
starlight streaming past its dying,
full moon transfixed at the moment of its waning,
the song of a man who lived and died
forever young.