Buried under the rubbles is every piece of Mama’ furniture. And more. Her pots and pans, her silverware, her cooking utensils (and that cumin smell), the cookbooks that I was supposed to memorize (“but don’t bother reading them ya habibti, just cook”), the dining table (and all the family meals, and all the lonely meals once the kids left), the living room set and its long sofas (and their busy beige, maroon and black colors) and with them all the evenings she and I fell asleep (and snored, especially her) halfway through long Egyptian movies, those sofas with their stains and little scratches and the late afternoon giggles and naps and the morning chats, the grand bookcase and its cabinets filled with useless, beautiful, ornaments and old books and (too) many copies of the Quran and one Bible (and of course, our school books) that were neatly displayed (some upside down) and rarely touched once “the kids” grew up, the salon and its marble tables that were reserved for the visitors and “don’t you dare touching with your dirty hands”, the curtains made of silk and satin (she would fix them neatly, passing her hands gently over them and remarking for the zillions time “oh how soft they are”), her bedroom set, her precious bedroom set that she designed piece by piece to the smallest and most boring detail and its huge closet of 6 doors (and 8 shelves and 3 drawers) and its antique-looking brass keys (that don’t lock anymore), and the ridiculously large bed with its hard mattress (“better for the back”, she always argued) and its eternal smell of Miss Dior and a hint of Dove and Nivea, this mattress where I was supposed to sleep in my old age when I finally return home (as she made me promise), where I wanted to die in my old age (as I promised myself) warmly under her favorite velvety dark red cover, as if in her arms. ALL under the rubbles. All the furniture, all the little porcelain figurines (why did she have so many?), all the knitting needles and the unfinished blue shawl, the framed canvas (and the one I ruined as a child but she refused to fix, “it will be a fun story to tell your own children” as she consoled me then), all the kitchen stuff and things and sheets and cushions and velvety covers and rugs, and boxes filled with candles (some half burned) and pot holders (some, of course, stained with tomato sauce and olive oil), and vases and ashtrays (rarely used) and many lamps (her favorites were the bronze ones with round crystal tops that she got from the old Bastah Souk) — ALL GONE. They all got killed, by an Israeli strike, along with baba’s “project”, as its roof and walls crumbled to the ground, to their death. But it’s OK, they say, it was only a building. And it was only a bed. A closet. A table. A dresser (with an old de-silvering mirror). It’s only a sofa. It’s only a chair (actually, 12 chairs to be exact, a couple had tears in their cushioned seats that her tremored hands never managed to fix before she died). They are just things. Stuff. A plate (actually, dozens of plates, different sizes and colors, all with the same lingering aroma that she proudly called “the Sabah scent”) and rice pudding bowls (blue and white, with some golden lines and traces of orange blossom water “that you must always add”). Crystal glasses (some of them were chipped, but she wouldn’t throw away, “drink from the other side” she would say with her mischievous smile). ALL are broken. Because they got killed into small tiny pieces and got mixed, together, with the ripped curtains (the really soft ones), and the cumin and Dove and Nivea smell, and the Egyptian movies and the giggles and the shelves. All gone. Witnesses to many lives, lived long ago. And gone is the mattress and its thick hard stuffing. And gone is the last place for me to sleep, in Mama’s arms. Gone is the place, for me to die, in Mama’s arms.
Samira Atallah, 07.12.2024