<p class="ql-align-justify">"My mother's land has a million fudge trees on it," my husband told me. I giggled and pointed out his mistake, but he brushed it aside. His English was good, but delightfully imperfect. How could he mix up fudge with figs?</p><p class="ql-align-justify">"The figs are sweeter than any candy. I will show you."&nbsp;</p><p class="ql-align-justify">As the plane made its final approach into Beirut, I remembered his proclamation, spoken in accented English. He looked so like Omar Sharif, in spite of his broken nose, as he swept the air with one hand. He was good at proclamations. When he gave me the engagement ring, I'd agreed to go to Lebanon, his homeland, with him, but confessed my misgivings. "I'll never ask you to stay in a place where you're not happy," he'd said. I'd believed him. I hastily brushed away the memories, as well as the unbidden tears. It had been twenty-two years since I was last here. I was not the girl I had been when I first arrived in this ancient city, nor the young, scared mother I had been when I last left, fleeing the bombs. I thought fondly of that girl and mother. I shook my head. Could that have been me? Could only eight years define a life?&nbsp;</p><p><br></p>