A Collage

The 1980s chandelier with two sad burnt, and three-exhausted yellowishbulbs. The plastic flooring with its parquet pattern, jumping in three artificial brown shades and torn in several places. The reddish coarse rectangular carpet, that appeared in this room suddenly, and I didn’t know the reason. The Chinese TV with its silly logo covered by dust. The circular glass table top laden by photo frames, silver, metal and ceramic ones that once were given as presents in birthdays and motherdays, all sleep under a blanket of neglect, the black and white photos are of people I don’t recognize, while the fading colored ones are of those defeated by time. The rectangular table carrying the plastic tray, the torch, the torn telephone index and the fresh folded newspaper. The old wooden sliding door that moans at every move. The two worn out pinkish synthetic cushions resting on the white plastic chair. I will never see them again. Never. I still remember my visits, which were not as frequent as I wish. They were short and far apart. Silence, loud TV noise or the unneeded rambling of a nurse stole the few minutes I was willing to spare. Her voice was always tender, till she refused to speak. Now I struggle to put these visits in the right and logical order. The silent phase is easily placed at the very end, but what about the previous phases, when she said so little, when she stared at the space, when she looked silently towards the noisy TV. Now I’m trying to remember everything, how she refused to eat. There was the phase of nonstop talking, this was a very short phase, she talked and talked and talked, and took me back to the 1940s, and in other visits we were in the middle of the 1960s, with her parents and her husband, all her beloved ones, who had left her alone. But there were other visits when she replied to my bland questions by a smile and “el hamdolella”, we mentioned a few members of the family, the politics, the weather and work, and for most of her questions, I had to return the “el hamdolella”. Memories have no mercy, the good ones tend to fly, while the tough ones torture you and stay. I want to escape from these visits, from the room that vanished quickly and can be only recreated by me. How many times did she say, “ yalla go back home, yalla you look tired, you have work tomorrow”? How many times did both of us stop talking, as if we realized that there is nothing cheerful to say? I used to go to meet her, glimpses of her, traces of her, but no, she was not there. But I still see her moving around the orange trees in a trousers and a shirt, with a colored scarf tied in a trendy way, moving in our farm in Fayoum. A cosmopolitan lady sitting in the fields feeding me oranges against a biblical background of peasants and beasts. That shot could have been easily taken from a Hollywood movie or an Imperialist poster. I see her shining among her guests; I was too young to remember how she was dressed, her jewelry or her hairstyle, but that can be guessed from photos. I am good at these historical collages. I prefer her old photographs without the veil; the veil does not suit her, standing like an empress, elegant and tall. Sitting by her mirror holding her long pearl necklaces, I still see her silver kohl container with its decorated handle, reflecting patterns in the mirror. This scene is my favorite; my empress is checking her jewelry, the rings always looked beautiful in her slender fingers. I have a few more great scenes, when I was young; I always had the feeling that whenever I’ll step into the terrace, she would be sitting in a sunny corner having breakfast with my grandfather. It seemed like an eternal scene, the white plates on a small table, the orange juice glasses and the bowl of black olives, cheese and salad everything is still fresh to me. Sitting with a cigarette and a porcelain cup of coffee, a rare scene that I have always recalled. Deep down I loved the fact that my grandmother never cooked, let other boys enjoy a granny’s cake while I contemplate her grace. I don’t know what to say, they say we will meet in heaven, but will she ever confess why she was silent. While everyone was trying to be in charge as she was finally leaving her home, I collapsed alone, wondering why she was that nice to me. Why did she love me in such a way, why did she scratch my heart with her gradual disappearance and painful silence, why did she taught me “unconditional love” years before I hear the term from psychiatrists.I’m sitting now shuffling my memories that seem fewer everyday. The same person who taught me love showed me how death is cruel, and now I’m that helpless kid again. I need to see her again and tell her everything, all the untold stories, all the gossip, all my problems and fears. Now, I wonder how long and boring her days have been, the same room, the noisy TV, the bad lighting and the crackled off white paint, only interrupted by very few erratic visits, of people who were always keen to leave. My whole week are barren, only these 20 minutes- visits could have saved me from these memories and such a torturing game. I mourned her many times before, but how will I ever overcome the pain. Other people left and took their fair share of condolences and sadness, but she is a different case, she shattered me and left, and took the little kid away. No one is more vulnerable than a person without memories, and these memories were all what I wanted to save. I can still hear her singing to me, but the real fear is if one day I don’t hear her voice again.