There was a trace at times… a trace of something great and complete. But now that she looked in those eyes, she saw nothing- and she realized that those hopeful moments had only been a fleeting flashback to a time she, for the most part, could no longer remember—now, she couldn’t even conjure up memories of the ‘real’ grandmother. She always felt such guilt thinking like this because she didn’t even know how to call out to the nearly-ninety year old woman sitting beside her on the couch.

She was too scared to call her “teta” because that only confused the grandmother- maybe she would awaken in a moment of disillusion, wondering why this young stranger imposed a relationship on her. She didn’t want to call her “tant” because then it only eluded to the ambiguous connection they now held with one another, and she was certainly determined never to use “is’aaf”—the grandmother’s given name had always been an unspoken word because she didn’t see her as a person. Instead, the grandmother existed entirely in relation to her; using the grandmother’s proper name failed to expose this connection, and merely revealed the fact that she was a woman, complete, regardless of her role as grandmother- that, in fact, she did not need her in order to stay alive. She couldn’t digest the image of the grandmother as a woman- No, she’d never allow herself to call her “is’aaf”—although she had a habit of letting the name roll off her tongue when she knew no one could overhear… she enjoyed how smoothly and gently it secretly glided across her mouth… though when she finally heard it, it held too much pain. “is’aaf” had been a traditional Arabic name that her ancestors had used frequently, but to her it was too foreign.

Actually, now that she thought about it more… the name made her uncomfortable because it wasn’t foreign enough… It’s utterance recalled the memories of family members long past, but it also exposed the coldness of her present-day life. No, she concluded again, “is’aaf” would never work because, in English, it carried with it the burden of translating into the word ‘ambulance’, and God knows, she had never wanted to associate her with the morbid-ness of ambulances. No... she never wanted to…. though she knew that she would one day have to.

Though the person sitting next to her was technically her mother’s own mother, they no longer shared common memories. History had been ripped from them, and now she felt betrayed. What made her feel more alone was identifying the grandmother’s ignorance of this betrayal; her own life had disappeared yet she had no recollection of it ever existing. She lived now only in the now- and if she couldn’t remember her, had no intention nor desire to even do so, then what would become of her? Would she, too, disappear if the grandmother could not remember her? Just as much as the grandmother was destined to always be defined by her role… she, too, only knew herself as a granddaughter. But this granddaughter had now lost her focal point, her center of gravity. Yes, it was that very definition that had been lost to the both of them. She would now instead have to recreate her own:

She walks through the door, lights dim… esophagus vibrating in collusion with the bass; we’ve all seen this before.

It’s all a dream, more like a fantasy really… the world walking into the room and showing off; this is what I have… everybody’s in reverence.

She once had a dream that she was frozen and thick with disgust at this white faced, frizzy-haired girl who sat in front of her… She didn’t remember any other detail of the dream except that she felt disgusted- still feels disgusted.

the dream comes back as she walks through the door, lights dim….. esophagus vibrating…. walks into the room to show off… but nobody’s listening, she’s talking to herself.

everywhere around her, she sees herself… her clothes and complexion vary yet there she is.. miles away from herself…. looking back at her…
searching and criticizing her…

There she is wearing a long skirt with a slit on its side… moving all the way up to her hips… she’s also there on the opposite side of the room, in a corner, with a short top and loose trousers, braless-breasts fully visible… her hair is long, her hair is short…. but always dyed….

Welcome home…….. two bodies moving in unison, pelvis sliding… moistened top and creased bottoms…. they are grabbing on out of desperation… and claim that it’s love….

She walks out of the room and has nothing to show for… everybody’s laughing… you can find her inside… all over…. half dressed and sweaty…. reeking of sex……. She has come to find herself….. fully inside.

She remembered a picture that had once been miraculously placed in a family album—the picture was taken over twenty years ago while they were living in London—her parents had wanted to take the grandmother to Hyde Park so that she could see the natural beauty that the English had so well preserved. The picture was actually one of the best ones taken that day—the faces looked intensely at the camera—the perfect pose had been attained as the faces of the entire clan turned upright, forward, and more than eager to be forever remembered.

She loved staring at this picture because it brought back memories of a time in her life where things made more sense - where her parents, as far as she remembered, were happy; she could close her eyes and recall the days where she’d come home and catch her parents secretly kissing one another. Now… well, now… they barely spoke: her parents barely spoke to others, including her. Their kisses hung eternally in mid-air.

A kiss in the dark holds as little truth as a lie in a confessional booth.

A kiss in the dark holds as little truth as a lie in a confessional booth.

London had become a safe haven—a site of temporary bliss, tucked under an array of heart-breaking memories. The irony lay in knowing that this security net, the memories of comfort (her comfort food, so to speak), was only preserved under the blanket of pain… it lay there, only to be preserved by it.

The picture framed not only a temporary happiness the parents had experienced but also a moment where she felt comfortable in her own shoes. Her friends at school had remarked about her different appearance but had never demanded that she fit into what they were taught was ‘normal’, ‘English’, ‘proper’; her peers had been too young and had yet to feel the discomfort towards ‘her people’. They weren’t as in-tune as she had been with the history unfolding before her in the images on the screen. The television’s depiction taught her that she came from a tribe of anger and irrationality; she wondered if these genetic dispossessions (and she meant dispossessions) would skip her generation, but she could now see that, alas, she too lay claim to such tendencies. Her people inhabited a distant space that she only inherited through images. That was her land—her people…. traditions, values, and beliefs, were inscribed in frames... in stolen snapshots taken by camouflaged reporters.

The picture of her family in Hyde Park reemphasized such a theory—the image reflected a temporary moment where she had thought everyone had been happy. She didn’t know who had taken the image, but she knew that she would love him for as long as she’d live. The photographer enabled this last attempt, at creating a coherent family unit, to come into fruition.

She, who sat almost entirely on her father’s lap, had placed her arm around his head as a trace of her devotion to him. Little did she know that that would be one of the last times she would be able to physically hold her father. Had she known then that her touch would one day hurt him, she would have held on to him longer—she would never have dissolved her embrace after the picture had been snapped.

In an ironic twist of fate, the image served as testament to the fact that she had one day been able to hold her father- she often wondered if she had fabricated such moments in her mind where she would wait for her father to come home from work and change into his ‘aabeyeh’- she could still smell the thickness of the cloak, feel its tender threads as it hung loosely off her father’s shoulders. He would sit in his favorite chair and smile at her- this was her cue that he waited for her to run and sit beside him—in his chair—together with him…. His left hand would draw his ‘aabeyeh’ over her and she promised herself she would never forget just how much her father had loved her. Her impatience to see him come home from work was equally reflected in his eyes- he, too, promised himself that he would never forget these moments—these stolen moments where his youngest felt such pride.

Why had no one thought of taking a picture of these moments? Why had her mother or sister not realized that she would not be able to sit close to her father, let alone be held by him, for much longer? She was worried that she would forget moments like these, and so, at times, she would wear that very brown ‘aabeyeh’ and tell herself that once, a long time ago, her father’s body housed this special garment. Perhaps that’s where her obsession with ‘aabeyehs’ had begun—they served as temporary stand-ins for the realities she could no longer feel.

Now when she saw her father, as her parents waited at the airport impatiently for her flight to land, she would run to him… but suddenly stop as she remembered that he couldn’t be held, that it burnt him every time something made contact with his upper body. In an instance, her body stiffens and her right hand extends so as to meet her father’s extended hand—they uncomfortably shake hands, always uncomfortably, and plant three kisses on one another’s cheeks.

A kiss in the dark holds as little truth as a lie in a confessional booth.

A kiss in the dark holds as little truth as a lie in a confessional booth.

Others standing in the airport watch these two individuals exchange greetings and wonder how these strangers know each other.

Her family had become estranged to her without her detection—her grandmother sat day after day in front of the television while, simultaneously, her father dressed in form fitting pajamas, and a tight robe—too tight to shield an additional body had that body still been invited- impersonally clad, he entertained himself with the blank screen for he claimed he had already seen enough.

The lives of her father and grandmother had begun differently… but she now shuddered at the thought that she could literally substitute one individual for the other… Both sat immobile in their chair, waiting for strangers to come and remind them of who they once used to be.