In memory of Nena

There is a black and white photograph of Nena in the Alhambra. Draped in layers of embroidered silks, she poses like a lioness against a majestic background of columns and arches. She wears a Moorish headdress, and her dancer's feet extend from underneath the robe. Her face is long and regal, and she gazes at you with warm charm.

In her kitchen in the Malki, she used to cook lemon pound cake. In the dining room of her Alpharetta home, Scrabble letters and scattered puzzle pieces covered the glossed wooden table from Damascus. On Thanksgiving, she'd prepare apple sauce from scratch, and she was always the first to reach for the chocolate dessert.

During Z's wedding, I escorted Nena down the aisle. First in line, we stood waiting in anticipation behind the double doors for our cue. The humidity was building, and the Bach melody from the guitar was melting with the chatter of the guests. Her arm was clasped around mine, and I could sense her weight shifting slightly in an effort to maintain her own balance.

We had practiced the walk during the rehearsal the day before and knew exactly what to do. Together, we'd make the first entrance, turn right, and then I'd wait for Nena to take her seat before quickly sneaking behind-the-scenes upstairs to enter with the groom's party.

The hum of the crowd descrescendoed, and the doors opened. The digital cameras were snapping wildly, and the pops of flash bounced off Nena's glasses. Already blind in one eye, I was sure that she was going to lose her vision completely by the time we reached the front row.

Well, we made it through the fireworks, and then I snuck upstairs. But shit! I peered down below and saw that Nena had sat down in the wrong chair! I could sense my mother saying "Lalalalalalalalala" while she urged Nena to get up and move down five chairs. I had screwed it all up. I had embarrassed Nena. I had ruined the wedding. Meanwhile, the guests waited awkwardly while R and Y helped to shift Nena down.

Upon the closing of the ceremony, I rushed back down stairs and retrieved Nena from the front row. As we processed outside and smiled at the crowd, I apologized a thousand and one times.

"It's okay, ma sar shee! It's okay!" she laughed kindly. The pitch of her voice was always higher when she spoke English, and on this occasion she was practically a soprano. Anyways, her mind was set on stepping down the stairs to stand at the helm of her family for the giant group photo to celebrate her grandson's marriage in Atlanta, Georgia.

Decades and oceans mark the distance between these two moments--the Alhambra and the wedding. And the journey to both is remarkable. In the former, she is on a trip from Damascus with her Syrian husband Rifaat and her daughters, returning to her birthplace in Spain, where her French admiral father Gaston Chat was stationed during the Spanish Civil War.

In the latter, she is a widow, a naturalized American, a grandmother of ten. She is walking proudly with a cane, having overcome a paralyzing back surgery against all odds. And she is speaking English and Arabic.

Nena's story is one of migration and endurance. In the most impossible circumstances and the most foreign places, Nena found a home. May her place in the hereafter be the sweetest home yet.