Slatka
09-25-2008, 12:43 AM
My father was always the center of attention, a charismatic man who never sought the affection of others but always earned it anyway. People were always drawn to him because he was a cheerful, humorous man and they enjoyed his company. People held him in such high esteem and afforded him so much respect he had enough to share with the rest of my family and we, too, were greeted a little more warmly because we were his. He always flirted shamelessly with attractive, young women and my mother would simply smile proudly and laugh along because she knew it wasn't about him - it was simply his way of bringing a little joy and laughter to their lives. "Do you know Ahmed?" he would ask, every time - even though he himself knew no one with that name. "He told me you were the prettiest girl I'd see in this place and he told me no lie!" Whenever he was invited somewhere by his friends, whether to a simple card game or a fishing trip, if he didn't go - no one went. Our house was always filled with guests every evening yet I had even more private time alone with him than I wanted as a child.
My mother always sat with perfect posture, her legs crossed. She always moved slowly, elegantly, and commanded respect from all in her presence. Men would quickly comb their hair and wipe the palms of their hands on their pants before greeting her with wide eyes and exaggerated movements, as though they did not speak the same language she did. However, she never allowed her commanding presence to smother her humanity. As she sat with her legs crossed, she would often relax her perfect posture long enough to place her hands on her legs and lean forward for a hearty belly laugh. She often laughed hard enough to lose her breath and blush, especially in the comfort of our home, surrounded by her friends. No one ever referred to my parents as "Adnan and his wife", as they referred to every other couple, but always as "Adnan and Munira".
The love I have for them is slowly beating me to death and every day I am unable to see them with my eyes, touch them with my hands, my heart grows older and more frail. Grief has crushed me and although I survived, although I am free once again, my heart, my soul, is still caged. We used to say every woman from my city had two hearts, one she gave to her city, the other to her husband. We would sing songs about it. Now we sing about burned homes and broken glass - clinging to a few pictures salvaged from the ruins, which allow to hold onto memories salvaged from a place within us that fared no better.
I hear the echo of distant songs in my mind, songs I don't have the heart to sing anymore, songs with lyrics that seem pathetically naive. I can hear my father singing along as my mother claps and laughs. If it will make the sound louder, clearer, God can take me.
My mother always sat with perfect posture, her legs crossed. She always moved slowly, elegantly, and commanded respect from all in her presence. Men would quickly comb their hair and wipe the palms of their hands on their pants before greeting her with wide eyes and exaggerated movements, as though they did not speak the same language she did. However, she never allowed her commanding presence to smother her humanity. As she sat with her legs crossed, she would often relax her perfect posture long enough to place her hands on her legs and lean forward for a hearty belly laugh. She often laughed hard enough to lose her breath and blush, especially in the comfort of our home, surrounded by her friends. No one ever referred to my parents as "Adnan and his wife", as they referred to every other couple, but always as "Adnan and Munira".
The love I have for them is slowly beating me to death and every day I am unable to see them with my eyes, touch them with my hands, my heart grows older and more frail. Grief has crushed me and although I survived, although I am free once again, my heart, my soul, is still caged. We used to say every woman from my city had two hearts, one she gave to her city, the other to her husband. We would sing songs about it. Now we sing about burned homes and broken glass - clinging to a few pictures salvaged from the ruins, which allow to hold onto memories salvaged from a place within us that fared no better.
I hear the echo of distant songs in my mind, songs I don't have the heart to sing anymore, songs with lyrics that seem pathetically naive. I can hear my father singing along as my mother claps and laughs. If it will make the sound louder, clearer, God can take me.