Weekend breakfast in my grandmother’s garden

When I was young, all of us – children, grandchildren, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews – would go to my grandmother’s house in Homs every weekend. Her house was just on the outskirts of the city, and in her garden, hidden away on the grass among the fruit trees, there was a long table with a flower tablecloth. We would sit at that table on chairs, stools or boxes turned upside down. Sometimes we even sat on an old swing. And we would eat. This is where the lives and stories of all the family members intertwined. It was where we came together again after a week of work or school, or during the lazy vacation days.