The sky was cloudy. No being in sight. The harsh wind felt like a cold winter day. Not a typical day is what you’d say if you were in Jordan. The ground was hard, crushing the pebbles with each step I took. There he was, standing tall with a smile across his face. He was there, but not quiet. My imagination manipulated me into thinking he was there. When really, he was in his grave.

I placed the red, shivering flowers that I picked out from my grandmothers garden and placed them on his rusty stone, and looked down at the carved words that left a mark on my world. My father greeted him with a pat on the back, “it’s been a while,” he said as he introduced my two sisters, Jana and Salma, and I. Jana clutched her cold sweaty palms onto the tombstone, staring down at his grave with tears streaming down her face. Salma stared. She was a still statue with an expressionless face. I sat down on the ground with tears running down my face. Tear after tear, the wind came swooping in like a tornado, making the flowers shiver even more. The flowers on the ground looked frail but they seemed healthy. The red colors of the flowers were beginning to fade. I tried to think of the times I spent with him but then I remembered. I have never met him. Then it clicked. I recalled a time not long ago where he actually became a big influence on my life.

It was just a regular, dusty day in Kuwait and I’ve been so grasped on the idea of my name; why my mother would name me such a complicated name? Yes, it may just be a name but why that name? Why not something else? I guess it was just another Arabic name that corresponds to my Arabic culture. I found my mother on a chair in the kitchen dining table organizing her tea bags into boxes that were laid out on the table.

     “Mama, why did you name me Jawhara?”

My mother, with her soft pale face grew a little smile on her face, responding, “When you were still in my tummy, your father and I were thinking of names. Your grandfather suggested that name so we really liked it. He died before you were born and he didn’t get to meet you. In honor of your grandfather, we named you Jawhara.” 
     

“Would you have named me something else?”
     

“Your father and I had a few options but Jawhara became our first choice when your grandfather suggested it. It means precious jewel in Arabic, if you didn’t know. It meant a lot to us that he’d suggested such a name. And I’m sure it means a lot to him even if he’s never met you.”

     I left my mothers side and walked around my house to find my father. I wanted to know more about my grandfather. I found my dad sitting on the couch with his glasses slid down across his nose, perceiving the newspaper. As I blocked the light from his newspaper, I could see his irritation, which drew his attention to me.

     “Yes Jawhara?”
     “Can you tell me a little bit about your father- my grandfather?”
     

I could see a smile peak across his face and he began to say, “He was very positive about everything. Every issue there was, he made sure that there were resolved the right way. He always cared about everyone before himself. And not to brag or anything, I get my humor from him as well.”
   

 I let out a small giggle and he continued,
     

“Really! When I was younger, every Friday morning he would wake up my brothers, sisters, and I by loudly singing songs because he knew it would disturb our sleep. But he did it so we could spend a fun day all together.”
     

I left the room imagining what life would be like with my grandfather still here. He would’ve been one more person that would care about me; one more person to help me with my problems; and one more person to make me laugh when I’m feeling down. Even though he wasn’t there, I knew he would still care.
     

After what seemed a decade, we left the dreadful cemetery. As we walked back to the car, the sun came out, shining. I looked back at my grandfather’s grave and saw the red flowers bloom. We entered the car with sorrow faces. My dad, trying to lighten up the mood, asked, “Jawhara, do you know he named you?” I didn’t ask who “he” was because I already knew. “Of course I do!” I responded with an effort of brightness in my voice.  My father looked at my reflection in the rear mirror and it was obvious he couldn’t be fooled by my attempted happiness. I was trying to fight back the tears but my dad still caught a glimpse of a streaming tear running down my face. I felt my tears as a sign of weakness for I didn’t know the reason for my burden. I tried sucking the tears back in but they didn’t budge.

     “You know, even if you have never met him, you still have a part of him in you.”
     “I know but it’s not something that is big enough for him to be a part of me.”
     “Of course it does! It’s your name! People call you by your name; your name literally represents the personality of your qualities.”

     The rest of the car ride home was silent. I isolated myself to one side of the car to cover up my grief. The car stopped, I looked up to see what happened but we just stopped at a traffic light. I could see a variety of colors from the corner of my eye. The colors drew me in just to find different bright-colored flowers. There were red flowers, purple flowers, pink flowers, and white flowers. It was such beautiful scenery I didn’t want to take my eyes off of them.

What makes a flower seed into a beautiful flower? Flowers are planted into the ground to grow. The soil supports the flower throughout its process of growing. They are watered with tears from the sky or simply giving it care by regularly watering them. Sunlight is another necessity for flowers to grow. What happens when flowers begin to die? Once flowers have been here for long enough, they begin to drowse. Their leaves go dry and their petals go feeble. Once the flower dies, so does the magnificence it gave to the world.  But, they still leave a mark on the world. They are appreciated and treated with care in return for their beauty.  Once it’s time for their passing, they are swept away along with their beauty. However, the beauty will never be forgotten.

     I remembered the flowers that I placed on my grandfather’s tombstone. My grandfather gave me the best name I could ever ask for, and I gave him flowers. Yes, flowers aren’t the best way to owe him for such a rich name but I chose those flowers. And I know they’re going to leave a mark on him the way he left a mark on me.