I remember the first time I saw your face. Your cheeks flushed a deep red when I walked into the room. I was surprised; I had never seen a man blush before.
I remember you sitting in that sunk-in armchair, motorcycle helmet balanced on one knee, listening to my dad and uncles talk about anything and everything. We placed sweets before you in those fancy little plates, but you never ate anything.
I remember peeking through the curtain as you put on your helmet and sped away. A bearded Egyptian guy didn't quite fit the stereotype I had in my head of motorbike riders.
I remember looking at you from the upper floor of the masjid on the big day. Your head was down the whole time. I sat listening solemnly too, but when I heard my name spoken together with yours, I grinned like a fool.
I remember descending the masjid stairs, and how you hid behind a wall when you saw me. You told me not to expect that you'd hold my hand in public.
You did hold my hand later before you left for the night, after all the ring-wearing and cake-cutting and embarrassing-photo-taking. I thought it was cute that your palms were sweaty.
I remember leaving you behind as I walked through the airport gates twelve days later. It was your birthday. Once you were out of sight, I couldn't hold the tears in. I must have been quite the sight.
Again I couldn't hold my tears in when, ten months later, I looked out the airplane window and saw my hometown shrinking before me as we ascended. Would I ever see it again?
I remember the sandy colour of the desert as we landed, and the random clusters of buildings here and there. It couldn't be more different from the green landscape I had left, with its impeccably neat rows of streets, houses, and fields. Goodbye, prim and proper; hello, hustle and bustle!
I remember the next four years as a blur of baby-bubble excitement and exhaustion. I remember the creepy feeling that something inside me was alive. I remember how fast you shot out of bed when I told you my water broke. I remember the beautiful middle-of-the-night smiles that I could only reciprocate with bloodshot stares.
I remember the teddy bear hanging by its ears from the clothesline after the post-green-peas diaper explosion. I remember sitting in the dark breastfeeding while mosquitoes buzzed around me and tucked into my flesh. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks; I was too tired to swat them away. I remember my daughter was five months old when I found out there was another bun in the oven. I was so sleep-deprived I couldn't help but cry.
I remember taking photos obsessively. I remember my ridiculous baby voice. I remember an otherworldly love for my babies. I remember my first time grocery-shopping alone while my girls were in daycare. I'd never felt such euphoria!
I remember your decision to give Canada a try, and the day the visa finally arrived. I remember the day we left; there was no trace of a smile on your mother's face. I remember my dad picking us up from the airport in his huge Suburban. I remember being dazzled by all the green.
I remember busting out of my baby bubble – and jumping into a new one. I remember becoming enveloped in the world of teaching. I remember feeling rusty; I was sure someone would find out I had no idea what I was doing.
I remember you loved brisk walks in below-zero temperatures. I remember the peacefulness of walking through forests. I remember the courses you took, the steel-toed boots you bought, and the resumes you sent out. I remember you were homesick. I remember you were searching for yourself.
I remember those who died during our three years there. My aunt: the day I baked sugar cookies that suddenly lost their flavour. My grandfather: the day we laughed and snapped pictures of our girls riding a tractor, oblivious to the news we would find at home. My sister's husband: the day all of our lives changed irreversibly.
That is the day I try most not to remember. The reel is too hard to stop once it starts... Those three earth-shattering words, the last being “killed.” The shock and anguish so immense it seemed to block out the sun. Visiting my parents' house the day after, and my mom rubbing your back as you sobbed against the front door.
I remember your decision to visit home one year later – the same home where the killing happened – and how part of me thought I'd never see you again. I remember you kept our parting light, and asked for no tears. You came back, thank God, and you looked younger than I remembered. You seemed different – seeing your home country had pumped life and optimism back into you.
I remember the nasheed about Egypt that you'd set as your ringtone. I remember the doors that kept closing in front of you. I remember your rage when our ravenous reader stated that she couldn't read Arabic. I remember when you decided we'd be returning for good, and how I expected and accepted it. I remember my mom figuring it out without me telling her.
I remember breaking the news to my dad over the phone, in my darkened classroom during recess. I remember my sister calling me a traitor, half-jokingly. I remember my heart being simultaneously sad and content.
I remember the doors of good that opened to us when we returned. You were blessed with a job you loved; the girls' Arabic became stronger than mine; I began to write again.
I remember (so few of) Allah's countless blessings. May what comes be better than all that has passed.
(February 2018)
I remember you sitting in that sunk-in armchair, motorcycle helmet balanced on one knee, listening to my dad and uncles talk about anything and everything. We placed sweets before you in those fancy little plates, but you never ate anything.
I remember peeking through the curtain as you put on your helmet and sped away. A bearded Egyptian guy didn't quite fit the stereotype I had in my head of motorbike riders.
I remember looking at you from the upper floor of the masjid on the big day. Your head was down the whole time. I sat listening solemnly too, but when I heard my name spoken together with yours, I grinned like a fool.
I remember descending the masjid stairs, and how you hid behind a wall when you saw me. You told me not to expect that you'd hold my hand in public.
You did hold my hand later before you left for the night, after all the ring-wearing and cake-cutting and embarrassing-photo-taking. I thought it was cute that your palms were sweaty.
I remember leaving you behind as I walked through the airport gates twelve days later. It was your birthday. Once you were out of sight, I couldn't hold the tears in. I must have been quite the sight.
Again I couldn't hold my tears in when, ten months later, I looked out the airplane window and saw my hometown shrinking before me as we ascended. Would I ever see it again?
I remember the sandy colour of the desert as we landed, and the random clusters of buildings here and there. It couldn't be more different from the green landscape I had left, with its impeccably neat rows of streets, houses, and fields. Goodbye, prim and proper; hello, hustle and bustle!
I remember the next four years as a blur of baby-bubble excitement and exhaustion. I remember the creepy feeling that something inside me was alive. I remember how fast you shot out of bed when I told you my water broke. I remember the beautiful middle-of-the-night smiles that I could only reciprocate with bloodshot stares.
I remember the teddy bear hanging by its ears from the clothesline after the post-green-peas diaper explosion. I remember sitting in the dark breastfeeding while mosquitoes buzzed around me and tucked into my flesh. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks; I was too tired to swat them away. I remember my daughter was five months old when I found out there was another bun in the oven. I was so sleep-deprived I couldn't help but cry.
I remember taking photos obsessively. I remember my ridiculous baby voice. I remember an otherworldly love for my babies. I remember my first time grocery-shopping alone while my girls were in daycare. I'd never felt such euphoria!
I remember your decision to give Canada a try, and the day the visa finally arrived. I remember the day we left; there was no trace of a smile on your mother's face. I remember my dad picking us up from the airport in his huge Suburban. I remember being dazzled by all the green.
I remember busting out of my baby bubble – and jumping into a new one. I remember becoming enveloped in the world of teaching. I remember feeling rusty; I was sure someone would find out I had no idea what I was doing.
I remember you loved brisk walks in below-zero temperatures. I remember the peacefulness of walking through forests. I remember the courses you took, the steel-toed boots you bought, and the resumes you sent out. I remember you were homesick. I remember you were searching for yourself.
I remember those who died during our three years there. My aunt: the day I baked sugar cookies that suddenly lost their flavour. My grandfather: the day we laughed and snapped pictures of our girls riding a tractor, oblivious to the news we would find at home. My sister's husband: the day all of our lives changed irreversibly.
That is the day I try most not to remember. The reel is too hard to stop once it starts... Those three earth-shattering words, the last being “killed.” The shock and anguish so immense it seemed to block out the sun. Visiting my parents' house the day after, and my mom rubbing your back as you sobbed against the front door.
I remember your decision to visit home one year later – the same home where the killing happened – and how part of me thought I'd never see you again. I remember you kept our parting light, and asked for no tears. You came back, thank God, and you looked younger than I remembered. You seemed different – seeing your home country had pumped life and optimism back into you.
I remember the nasheed about Egypt that you'd set as your ringtone. I remember the doors that kept closing in front of you. I remember your rage when our ravenous reader stated that she couldn't read Arabic. I remember when you decided we'd be returning for good, and how I expected and accepted it. I remember my mom figuring it out without me telling her.
I remember breaking the news to my dad over the phone, in my darkened classroom during recess. I remember my sister calling me a traitor, half-jokingly. I remember my heart being simultaneously sad and content.
I remember the doors of good that opened to us when we returned. You were blessed with a job you loved; the girls' Arabic became stronger than mine; I began to write again.
I remember (so few of) Allah's countless blessings. May what comes be better than all that has passed.
(February 2018)
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