Memories that Heal, Almost
“…Quick, give me the clear Cold water of memory, let me bathe In it and drink it, let it heal me whole
And mend me where I am wounded.” Orpheus (adapted by Mike Cope) Every morning, before I can begin the ritual of preparing my first cup, I have to push aside a half-empty box of sugar cubes and a jar of almond butter to reach the bag of coffee beans. Yet I’m too sentimental to make myself throw them out because they remind me of my mother, who visited us in Doha not long ago. She’s onmymindwhen I walkmy coffee over to the dining table that’s become my workspace, and while my laptop labors to life, I send her a WhatsApp voice message: “Hi Mom. Hope you’re okay today. Miss you.” It had been a proper visit. Two months – long enough to get used to having her wander into the kitchen wide awake at 6am to find us stumbling around getting ready for work. And at 5pm, having her open the front door to welcome us home after work. Khalil and I got used to her love of long walks on the Pearl or Aspire Park on Friday mornings instead of having a lie in. Or her love of Souq Waqif where she could chat to anyone who was friendly while we stood in line for a falafel breakfast. We had some good times. Despite sudden outbursts of anger on both our parts. Despite my mood swings. We wanted her to stay longer but there was her visitor visa that had expired. And my twin sister calling almost daily to ask when she’d be home; my two beautiful nieces being unfairly cute and doe-eyed on those video calls. I could tell she missed them a lot. Maybe that’s why we didn’t change her flight or make her stay on longer? OnFebruary11– I remember because itwas just twodaysbeforeher birthday, in the first weeks of the coronavirus – we put my mom on a plane back home
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