That’s Arabic for a day of honey, a day of onions.
It’s also the title of a short poem by Chana Bloch, as follows:
In every maybe the fear of yes.
In every promise a shattered glass.
For every portion a cutting edge.
For every rift a slippery bridge.
In every hope some pickling salt.
In every bungle a touch of guilt.
Unto every plan God’s ringing laughter.
Unto every death a morning after.
Sunday night Stanley seemed to have a seizure of some kind. He breathed fast and hard, fell smash on the floor from the sofa, and seemed to lose his vision as he catapulted this way and that, stumbling over his legs, smashing against edges of furniture and bringing things down on himself and on the floor, including the fireplace screen and heavy accessories. He barely saw me.
I finally leashed him and dragged him to the guest room up the stairs, which has the least amount of furniture. In his state I couldn’t take him to a hospital. He circled round the room again and again, still breathing fast. But after about half an hour his breathing slowed down and he tired. He lay down finally and seemed to doze off. When I got up he opened his eyes and I could see that he saw me. I left the room, he followed me to the bedroom and fell asleep where he always does.
The following morning he seemed back to his old self, just a little more tired, a little more faded. Less hungry. But still loves his walks and went on a long outing with Leeann today, grinning all the way.
I’m getting good at waking up in the morning and looking for signs of spring and renewal. This morning I took my fast walk and stopped by Gala and T to give them apples. They look up from their forage before I even round the curve, and canter to the fence. Gala goes straight for my pocket, and if there’s no apple there she’ll go for the phone. But there were apples, which made her happy. T behind her has a face covering protecting his eyes from the sun, like sunglasses.