Amer Malas | Fiction & Reflection

I was sitting in the third row of a seven-seater public transportation car in Amman. The seat vinyl was cracked and warm from the sun. It was late afternoon, the hour when the city feels tired but still loud.
I was twenty, coming back from college. The trip home always took about an hour and a half — two buses and this shared car at the end. By the time I reached this leg, my backpack felt heavier than it should have.
The man beside me was older, maybe seventy. He held a woven basket on his lap. Inside were apples, oranges, and figs. They looked freshly picked, some still dull with dust.
For a while, we didn’t speak. The car filled and emptied at each stop. The driver leaned out the window to call destinations. Someone adjusted the radio. The basket stayed steady on the man’s knees.
After a few minutes, he spoke, not looking at me.
“I bring fruit from my yard for my grandkids,” he said.
He shifted the basket slightly, as if to keep the fruit from rolling. “It’s better than sugary snacks.”
I nodded.
“I come from Irbid,” he continued. “Two hours by bus. Then another ride.”
He paused, watching the road through the windshield. “My daughter lives on the far side of Amman.”
The car lurched forward. A fig rolled against the basket’s edge and stopped.
“I keep to myself,” he said. “They’ve grown up. They know what to do.”
“Who?” I asked.
“My daughter and her husband.”
He said it simply, but his eyes stayed fixed ahead. I wondered if he was sad because she lived far away. Or because she didn’t come to him. Or because he had learned not to expect that.
“I’m grateful,” he added, after a moment. “I get to spend time with my grandkids.”
He adjusted the basket again. “They love the fruit I bring them. Every month.”
The car slowed as we reached the station. People stood, bags brushing against knees, voices overlapping. The driver called out stops again.
The man lifted the basket carefully and stood. I followed him out. On the sidewalk, the city noise rushed back in — horns, footsteps, a vendor shouting prices.
We went in different directions without saying goodbye.
I kept walking, the image of the basket still with me, the fruit pressed together as if it had learned how to travel this way.

Originally published on Medium · Witnessing Moments