03
May
May
Our childhood summers in my dad’s Benghazi still bring a twinge of nostalgia when I think of them, waves of warmth and fondness wash over me at unexpected times as a smell or a taste unlocks a buried memory. The smell of fresh mint, the warmth of the sun on a particularly sunny day, the sound of the sea rushing at the shore. Or the sight of my father tucking into a dish I recreated out of fond memories and longing, smiling as he regales us with stories of his own childhood.