We'd walk down those nondescript Egyptian streets, my siblings and I, faces glistening with sweat in the humid summer weather. The Mediterranean was just around the corner; it brought the breeze, but it also brought that heavy moisture that hung in the air.
Mom's eager steps led us to her childhood home, past listless men sitting in cafe chairs in the street, watching passersby. All those old buildings looked the same to us – until we reached the entrance to your building.
They were double doors, wooden and painted blue once-upon-a-time, and one of them was always open. I guess you'd hear our clambering footsteps approaching, because you'd let out your signature whistle. It was a simple melody: two long notes, gentle like the wind against our sweaty faces. We'd look at each other in excited recognition, grab the metal banister, and dash up the wide stone staircase leading up to your apartment. You'd always be waiting in the doorway with a big smile.
Your kisses were the prickliest. When your weathered face grazed mine, the stubble on your cheeks tickled like anything! I had to hold in my giggle, and if you weren't looking, I'd rub my face afterwards.
Your eyes were always twinkling with some joke; I guess my siblings and I gave you lots of fodder. We often stayed at your place when visiting Egypt, so you were all too familiar with our childish follies. I remember when you playfully mocked my oldest brother: “Mother, father, sister, brother,” you parroted in a whiny voice, scratching your sides for added comic effect. We laughed hysterically, of course; that is, until our turn came to be the butt of a joke!
Your living space was vast, one of those old-fashioned apartments with high ceilings that they don't make anymore. We'd have fun exploring those five rooms, connected to each other through doors in the walls. I'd bask in the stories that had become a part of your home: which room belonged to which of my aunts and uncles, where my mom used to study for her exams, and where my dad sat when he came to ask for my mom's hand (and who was looking through the keyhole from the next room!).
The breakfast table was always covered with a smorgasbord of Egyptian staples: fava beans, falafel, boiled eggs, old cheese, jam, and fresh bread. I doubt that's how you ate when we weren't around, but in true Egyptian fashion, guests had to be given the best!
I remember you cracking a boiled egg against your forehead and grinning mysteriously. I tried to do it too, but it hurt! I remember my grandmother's strawberry jam cake, which we all ate from excessively, and her fried potatoes, of which my brother ate a whole plate while she just smiled.
You had your framed wedding photo on display in the salon, the fancy room for visitors. I'd stare at that photo every time I visited, long after Grandma has passed away. She was so beautiful, and you so handsome. You wore the ring with her name etched into it until your last day.
You were a bodybuilder when you were young, and you proudly showed us a black-and-white picture of you in a textbook on the subject.
You showed us lots of other pictures too. You had a veritable library of photo albums, one for each of your children. I looked in my mom's and was spellbound; I could barely recognize her as a child. The latest pictures in the album were of us, cute little kids being pushed on swings. I'd never seen those pictures before, yet here they were, thousands of kilometres from where I lived, in your family archive.
Your home was the headquarters for your children and grandchildren, a gathering place for cutting cakes and snapping photos and chatting with family. It was the meet-up place before shopping expeditions with my aunts or after trips to the famous shop that served fresh mango juice.
It was also where my siblings and I played endless card games with our cousins. Language was no longer a stumbling block when we played war, spoons, or crazy eights. You let us play with your decks of cards, and our voices rose with every success and defeat. One day we decided to combine all those decks together for an endless game of war. You were furious. We learned the hard way that you hated disorder.
I remember scheming with my siblings and cousins to hide your cigarettes, and trying to convince you to quit smoking. Thank God you did, years later.
You sent me a musical birthday card every year, for at least a decade. I remember the thrill of seeing my name written on the envelope in your distinct hand, and the simple but sweet comments inside the card. You did this for my siblings too, keeping track of all the dates and mailing the cards ahead of time. We never told you how special they were to us; I think that's why you stopped sending them.
You were a constant in my life for three decades, a piece of shared history that connected me to everyone on my mother's side of the family. At first I'd visit you with my parents and siblings, then with my husband, then with him and my girls. You loved them too, and they loved you, though they shied away from your prickly kisses. You'd laugh your deep laugh at their babyish antics and say, “Let me tell you something in your ear,” so they'd come to you.
You did quite a bit of travelling too. You visited your sons in America and your daughter in Canada, riding planes and buses and seeing new faces and places. But after you'd seen the world, you still preferred your little corner of it in Alexandria, with its familiar sights and sounds, in the home you'd shared with the love of your life and your children.
It may be said that you lived a long life, but to all who loved you, you left too soon. In your sleep, it was, on May 26, 2013. You probably had a cup of tea right before bed – “to help me sleep,” you'd say with a smirk. You'd just returned from 'umrah; you weren't ill. The day before, you left a message on my mom's answering machine, asking her to call you back. She replayed that message many times over, to hear your voice again.
As for me, all I could muster was three words in my journal that day: “Today Giddo died.”
(March 2018)
Mom's eager steps led us to her childhood home, past listless men sitting in cafe chairs in the street, watching passersby. All those old buildings looked the same to us – until we reached the entrance to your building.
They were double doors, wooden and painted blue once-upon-a-time, and one of them was always open. I guess you'd hear our clambering footsteps approaching, because you'd let out your signature whistle. It was a simple melody: two long notes, gentle like the wind against our sweaty faces. We'd look at each other in excited recognition, grab the metal banister, and dash up the wide stone staircase leading up to your apartment. You'd always be waiting in the doorway with a big smile.
Your kisses were the prickliest. When your weathered face grazed mine, the stubble on your cheeks tickled like anything! I had to hold in my giggle, and if you weren't looking, I'd rub my face afterwards.
Your eyes were always twinkling with some joke; I guess my siblings and I gave you lots of fodder. We often stayed at your place when visiting Egypt, so you were all too familiar with our childish follies. I remember when you playfully mocked my oldest brother: “Mother, father, sister, brother,” you parroted in a whiny voice, scratching your sides for added comic effect. We laughed hysterically, of course; that is, until our turn came to be the butt of a joke!
Your living space was vast, one of those old-fashioned apartments with high ceilings that they don't make anymore. We'd have fun exploring those five rooms, connected to each other through doors in the walls. I'd bask in the stories that had become a part of your home: which room belonged to which of my aunts and uncles, where my mom used to study for her exams, and where my dad sat when he came to ask for my mom's hand (and who was looking through the keyhole from the next room!).
The breakfast table was always covered with a smorgasbord of Egyptian staples: fava beans, falafel, boiled eggs, old cheese, jam, and fresh bread. I doubt that's how you ate when we weren't around, but in true Egyptian fashion, guests had to be given the best!
I remember you cracking a boiled egg against your forehead and grinning mysteriously. I tried to do it too, but it hurt! I remember my grandmother's strawberry jam cake, which we all ate from excessively, and her fried potatoes, of which my brother ate a whole plate while she just smiled.
You had your framed wedding photo on display in the salon, the fancy room for visitors. I'd stare at that photo every time I visited, long after Grandma has passed away. She was so beautiful, and you so handsome. You wore the ring with her name etched into it until your last day.
You were a bodybuilder when you were young, and you proudly showed us a black-and-white picture of you in a textbook on the subject.
You showed us lots of other pictures too. You had a veritable library of photo albums, one for each of your children. I looked in my mom's and was spellbound; I could barely recognize her as a child. The latest pictures in the album were of us, cute little kids being pushed on swings. I'd never seen those pictures before, yet here they were, thousands of kilometres from where I lived, in your family archive.
Your home was the headquarters for your children and grandchildren, a gathering place for cutting cakes and snapping photos and chatting with family. It was the meet-up place before shopping expeditions with my aunts or after trips to the famous shop that served fresh mango juice.
It was also where my siblings and I played endless card games with our cousins. Language was no longer a stumbling block when we played war, spoons, or crazy eights. You let us play with your decks of cards, and our voices rose with every success and defeat. One day we decided to combine all those decks together for an endless game of war. You were furious. We learned the hard way that you hated disorder.
I remember scheming with my siblings and cousins to hide your cigarettes, and trying to convince you to quit smoking. Thank God you did, years later.
You sent me a musical birthday card every year, for at least a decade. I remember the thrill of seeing my name written on the envelope in your distinct hand, and the simple but sweet comments inside the card. You did this for my siblings too, keeping track of all the dates and mailing the cards ahead of time. We never told you how special they were to us; I think that's why you stopped sending them.
You were a constant in my life for three decades, a piece of shared history that connected me to everyone on my mother's side of the family. At first I'd visit you with my parents and siblings, then with my husband, then with him and my girls. You loved them too, and they loved you, though they shied away from your prickly kisses. You'd laugh your deep laugh at their babyish antics and say, “Let me tell you something in your ear,” so they'd come to you.
You did quite a bit of travelling too. You visited your sons in America and your daughter in Canada, riding planes and buses and seeing new faces and places. But after you'd seen the world, you still preferred your little corner of it in Alexandria, with its familiar sights and sounds, in the home you'd shared with the love of your life and your children.
It may be said that you lived a long life, but to all who loved you, you left too soon. In your sleep, it was, on May 26, 2013. You probably had a cup of tea right before bed – “to help me sleep,” you'd say with a smirk. You'd just returned from 'umrah; you weren't ill. The day before, you left a message on my mom's answering machine, asking her to call you back. She replayed that message many times over, to hear your voice again.
As for me, all I could muster was three words in my journal that day: “Today Giddo died.”
(March 2018)
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