Today I happened upon a book about Amman and its people, published in 1995. It was a document about the series of changes that Amman had undergone up to then. And I wanted to cry because I missed my little old Amman of 1995, I missed driving the Peugeot station wagon with the morning ragas or Shawn Colvin on highest volume, I missed our house being only one of three or four in that part of Dabouq, I missed seeing our house from the road, I missed the shepherd girl who used to ask me if I was in the army because I wore a dark green shirt, I missed life before the internet was the reference for everything, I missed Amman before the malls, I missed Amman full of wheat, I missed spring in Jordan when it still felt like spring, not just dust, I missed my father as a young man, I missed my mother as a young woman.

(image Jean Bradbury)