PASSING FOR NORMAL

Women of Sand and Myrrh…

A book by Hanan al-Shaykh that traveled with me to Beirut but I never got to finish. My sister always takes custody of the books I carry. Reminded me of the days gone astray in this land we migrated to. I thought of the short stories these women had to tell when I talked to my friend Tina. She is my Hanan this Tina. She is a Hala and Suha and Amar. I like to scrutinize into people’s little practices, little habits that anchor their void existence into an impending scenario we call life. I tried to resist it but eventually gave up to it. With time, I even began to cherish it. I began to look closer and my routines grew more stubborn and more tenacious.

Having a mother like my own, you acquire a respect for womanhood. A privilege and an honor only descended upon me when I begin neighboring a subset of her traits. Her warmth, her understanding, her colors, her smell, her presence. The little things she does, the little phrases she uses. One word that builds you up and takes you home. The lack of which throws you into abysmal despair and loneliness and fear. I found my mother in my solitude. I make a pot of fresh coffee every day. One spoon, two spoons, three spoons, haven't gotten it right yet. It does not taste right. Keep on trying, I’ll get there. It brings me closer to her.

I go to Tina, with a fresh pot of coffee and a fresh garland of stories. We sit facing the window, as we always need a window, and we talk. Women of sand and myrrh, of dreams of better days, of aching to our mother’s embrace. We act like little women, we have to. Beneath the surface, we know what hides. I see her escaping glance into that window after she arranges the cups on the tray. She made some sweets today. The kind her mother makes. She did not get it right though.She will keep on trying till she gets it right.She has to keep on trying.
One spoon, two spoons…