They say the last glass is gentle as death

“Rachid’s father is dead,” my neighbor Fatima told me as we hung laundry on our rooftop. She pulled a damp teddy bear from her pail, pinning it to the line by its oversized ears. “You should pay your respects. That’s his house, just there.” She pointed to a crumbling riad split into apartments, where a curtain hung before a blue door.

But I barely knew Rachid and I’d never met his father. For 3 months I’d been living in the dusty maze of the Fez medina, where Rachid made the rounds with his donkey to collect trash. He’d stop to chat while the mule snacked on garbage—commission, I thought—concerned once he learned I was alone. He’d asked about my family and brought sweets from his wife.

I visit the next day. The street smells of tanneries, heavy and sour. Boys pass a soccer ball and a vendor sells rosewater in green bottles.

Rachid is unshaven, his cheeks hollow. Seeing me, his face melts into a smile. “My friend! Marhaba, come in, come in.”
“So sorry for your loss,” I mumble.
“He’s at peace, inchallah. Please.” He waves to a couch piled high with pillows. I sit as he heads for the kitchen.

A wide-eyed toddler wanders out, sucking a soft rind of preserved lemon. She lays her head on my lap. Rachid returns with a silver teapot. “My granddaughter,” he tells me, “She cries every night since the death.”

He spoons dry leaves into the pot and covers them with water. We let it steep. The tea ceremony is slow—an impatient friend once called it a form of entrapment. Rachid adds sugar and mint, raising the pot to make foam. “Bismillah,” he says as we drink. “They say the last glass is gentle as death.” The green leaves flutter lazily in the hot water.

As the sun sets his wife comes in and kisses me. His daughter sits by the window, pouring oil into orange peels and lighting them as candles.

My entrapment couldn’t be sweeter. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to be alone,” I say. Rachid pauses mid-sip and looks at me, quizzical.

“Why would I want to be alone?”