Memories

Written by Aya Al Dubaee

I console myself each passing day that it is simply in the nature of memories to turn distorted and blurry, that I shouldn’t keep chasing after them, and that their fate is meant to be locked within the forefront of the mind, an invisible string connecting the mind with the heart. And yet in vain, as my feet stand on these unfamiliar grounds, I force myself to remember all the rushing fleeting moments, latching myself to a feeling that can offer me a ticket to that particular day or that time and put my heart at ease. In the sense of a vortex that almost instantly pulls you back to the past, to feel the fragments of what used to be but did not become. My memories continue to rage, a persistent reminder of a lost life.

I wasn’t sure if I should have left my room today. At the very least I wouldn’t be confined inside the house, feeling sorry for myself sitting alongside lonely raindrops tapping my window urging me to wander outside, to just leave these cream walls and that odd smell of English tea, musty and bitter. Now I sit shoulder to shoulder, body rigid, unstirring to notions of loud ramblings, unmoving to the heaves of breath from the bus window–another successful day of people watching. For me, public transportation served as a meeting place brimming with people destined to fall in love with; styled wrinkly people idly sitting, flimsy movements hoping you don’t fall, rings of the bus stopping that cut the distances between strangers
sending everyone clinging onto a pole for stability.

I set my eyes on the windows of Glasgow, watching as the rain relentlessly taps onto them with no indication of ever stopping– until when will this rain continue irritating us all with its persistence? Exhaling an exhausted puff of air, I lean my head on the seat, the noise of the bus fading into static, grey and thoughtless. I can’t help but remember the wispy, feathery ball-shaped clouds of Yemen, the kind where you stare so intensely to the sky, a definite cramp setting in, wondering if they taste like the sugar goodness of candy floss or bland cotton balls. And when the sun sets and stars appear scattered in the sky like fallen popcorn, I remember sitting on the roof of my great-grandmother's ageing house, staring at the endless
stars, these curious floating points of light and listening to her tell a tale to the stars. “Don’t count the stars,” She would say, “Each star pocketed inside your brain, becomes a persistent spot that lingers on your face. So be careful and don’t count. All you have to do is lie down and live with this moment.” Observing the influx of people the bus inhales, I wonder if she
might have been warning us of the human greed to constantly store everything for one’s self. To put value onto everything in order to determine their worth, to boost and feed our egos. It’s okay to let the stars stay as they are, beautiful and unattainable. I miss her. I miss her and all the random tales she’d indulge our ears. Her memory will be framed alongside the others with each day I’m far from her.

The bus shifts to the right announcing yet another stop. That’s when a pair of shoes clacked across the floor, scurrying to reach the exit. Hearing its hurried clacks, the blaring voice of the shoemaker, urging the neighbourhood to descend in shoes, immediately rings in my ear. Even in shoes, he found a source of income to support what I like to imagine, a family of
five; a wife, three sons and a daughter. He, like every other Yemeni, took to any means of income. I take him as a man of dignity, and when I look at my shoes I wonder where the waves of life washed him and his family. I remember tumbling down the stairs, racing against all the other shoes to get to him. And when I do, his calloused, rough fingers take the money
with a soft fatherly smile, a gentle soul he’ll always be. I run back to my mother with my fixed pair of shoes, content, ready to stomp the neighbourhood and the smile does not leave his face, it caves a place amidst the creases of skin; what became of him? Has his name fallen into the thousands of graves or has he marched the seas to safety? I hope to see his lasting smile, sweet like plum juice, tea with extra sugar; sugary sweets, so much so cavities celebrate. His smile ought to be tattooed on my shoes forever and until the soul of my shoe breaks once again, I’ll dive right down to him with new shoes, racing towards him once again.

But that’s all I can ever do, sit here remembering, wondering, and fantasising to no end. At times, I even feel as though I’m a spectator in my own life, just like that one lonely man at the back of the bus with his ears clogged, lost in a brown study or like this old lady outside, wearing a red jacket carrying groceries and passing by groups of school children, dog walkers, mothers, cyclers. It’s the same today, I didn’t have a destination to go to so I found myself aimlessly walking around taking note of cafes and shops, at the squirrels teetering from one branch to another, and at readers having their daily dose of imagination. I didn’t really stop at passing shops, only once to glance at a family-owned market. This aroused yet another memory in Yemen–that shop underneath my family’s apartment owned by two brothers, one who was ready to go to university and the other who would keep the shop. With each cashier encounter, I long to exchange silent smiles when leaving for school or sweets when I would compliment their hairstyles. I think of them when passing by shops and trying to peek at the faces of cashiers because memories of them faded. I’m scratching the itch in my brain, urging it to remember all and everything—were there fairy lights dangling above our heads? I should remember. Remember the colour of the counters (washed blue or grey?), remember the texture of money exchanged (smooth? harsh? Most probably dry), and the taste of my favourite snacks (sour or salty?). Alas, only their character remains; one lean, the other broad; one relaxed, the other puffed and stiff; a prominent smile, a slightly crooked smirk; drumming fingers, tightly coiled hands. They were Thing 1 and Thing 2. The entire neighbourhood knew them as such. They brought life to our little community and even as I sit among muted conversations, they effortlessly bring a smile to my face.

My younger sister probably misses them more, but maybe she only does so because they were nice to her when she was always scared of people, teachers and stray cats in particular. There was one instance where milk slipped from her hands and exploded all over the ground, creating this milky river down the street. She was only two seconds, maybe even less, from bubbling up and wailing because it was the milk my mum entrusted her to buy from the shop downstairs. Such an easy task, and yet it was a journey to the moon and back for her. With the milk spilled, and tears rolling, a puffed figure approaches her and leans in to brush her hair. I see this all from the window of my room, laughing quietly–I should have been more concerned but it was only the two brothers. He comes over and says “It’s okay Huda, it’s okay, I’ll get you another.” With that, she’s led away inside the shop, crying but somehow managing to walk, and after just a few seconds, she exits with sniffles, sore eyes, but hands filled with fresh milk and a handful of candy. I can’t help but cautiously grin at myself lest someone mistaken me for a crazy person. This quite possibly might have just been all a scheme, while he was fooled, my sister was happy, stuffed with sugar and happy. She’d be pleased to hear this story again tonight but at the rate of this moping bus, I would most definitely be late home.

Usually at this late time, I spend endless hours attempting to surf through memories of Yemen, wondering if a new memory would emerge, up until the dead of the night when all the lights would dim, breaths even, lips begin mumbling and feet twitching periodically. My mum would come over, almost as though she could hear the loud thoughts in my head and harshly whisper, “Quit messing around and try to get some sleep before school!” I exhale again, this has become the norm here in Glasgow. But in Yemen, it used to be my mum coming into a room I shared with my sisters to tuck our feet in and whisper words of honey and ripe cherry that would stick to my cheeks through the night. There’s no point in comparing what used to be with what is now, yet I’ll catch myself doing so subconsciously now.

I admit, I’m a little bit lonely these days. Maybe that’s why I find myself spending a great deal of my time reminiscing and eyeing other people’s relations with their companies. Even on this bus, my eyes continue to land on the same group of friends standing with wide smiles attached to their faces. I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up, I feared everyone would find my imperfections. I couldn’t focus on others so much so I constantly avoided eye contact. But Malak, my next door neighbour, was always there.

She embodied the easiness of life, how easy and simple everything used to be. I did not need to try so hard, just living to live. I’ll always seek Malak’s obnoxious ways of life. She was a prominent person in my childhood. The entire apartment would hear her banging on the door whenever we returned from school. She was eccentric, loud, a free spirit and just…colourful. Her beauty shone beyond her imperfections. I liked her even when I should not have liked her because she was both lovely and unpleasant towards me–how can there be two varieties of one person? only Malak. She changed like the weather, sunny at midnight; windy afternoon; thundering morning.

Malak was royalty, that was her name, she embodied that name in her actions, she did not care about anyone but herself, and even in that she managed to find a place for me in her life, always screaming my name, ears ringing with anticipation, bangs of excitement and annoyance, looking for me when I am not there, seeking a world for us to play and control. Malak requires all focus, all attention, all affection, purely obnoxious, even in my memories she requires all attention, needs all the spotlight on her. What are you doing right now Malak? Tonight I’m thinking of you; grey, like blank sheets of paper waiting to be ruined, hoping for your sunshine and thunder. Malak and Yemen are a one-way ticket to a memorable journey of fruitful days and evermore happiness and lighthearted kisses on fond cheeks, brushes of warm hands, butter-glossed fingertips full of love, and innocent grazes of skin to noses, racing under sweet potato for fairy lights, away from scary dogs and suspicious cat stares following our tiptoes. I miss her presence, soul and warmth. She was a friend in childhood I thought would stay like the mould in my room, yet on two points of earth we sit idly waiting for the hands of fate to bridge our paths. Out of control, my fate isn’t in my hands, no matter how much I grab onto, it’ll outsmart me, slip beyond my palms, harsh winds forcing my limbs to one way or another.

Don’t they say that everything relies on everything? She’s an inspiration, a muse, my muse. Inspiration from that feeling of entrancement by a person, in my case–her. Of idolising them, smoothing their rough edges, and falling in love with their imperfections. One person can change everything, and you have changed everything for me, you’re my best friend. While the memories of the brothers are distorted, I can remember everything about her, as though she lives inside of me. I’m thinking about the future we could have had, but I think even with this impossible possibility, the one we had will always be my favourite. You can’t find people like that here. Malak will always be an anomaly.

I sniffed quietly, feeling the tears creep out of my eyes. There was that familiar tightening in the throat but even as I took a short intake of breath and coughed into clenched fists, it relented. I chewed on my lower lip, glancing ahead to where my stop would come. It is such a strange feeling, to feel so physically empty yet so emotionally full at the same time. It is suffocating because it is weighty yet it is not entirely all too painful. There’s pain, god there’s so much pain, but it’s the overwhelming love, the heavy amount of it. The love that is just as powerful as the pain, that’s just as heavy as weight but rather dragging you down, it compresses you tightly like a mother’s smothering hug, a reminder that it's always going to be there.

I spring up when my stop approaches, and lung through the sets of arms, hands and shoulders until I finally land on these familiar grounds and leap to my home. I don’t pay mind to the dogs barking whom I always walk far away from, or the internet shop I usually admire for far too long, too afraid to enter in case I begin to remember the one in Yemen. It was a place where all would escape when the electricity cut and when me and my cousin get into trouble for spending too much time on the TV , we’d join the heaps of bodies shuffling towards the cafe. Leather seats, sticky with printed fingertips and overruled spilt drinks. With lots of chatter, laughter, snickers, sounds of fiery slaps to the shoulder, and soundless sips of tea. My cousin pushes me toward the seat, sticks out his hands and starts hammering onto the keyboard. And as I stand bouncing my feet with the wildest of colours swirling across my eyes I realise how exhilarating the internet is. How outlandish and freeing it felt to have this buzz course through our minds and to be inside a digital world of our own.

I stop walking, wipe at my eyes so much so they are red and swollen and then continue. I miss that cafe compounded with the voices of Yemen. But it was all fake, stimulated even. Their fake flower wallpapers in particular were fake, tacky and artificial. What happened to the real flowers? The ones surrounding me now felt comforting at this moment. I like these flowers. Small, soft, delicate, just all things pretty, like the subtle soft smile you wake up to from your mother, and the pat on the back from my father, soft, round, delicate. The pretty pink rosy flowers, just like my sister’s rosy cheeks from laughing too hard. When I reach our current apartment, I trudge up the stairs mulling the thought that perhaps being here isn’t as crushing as it feels, and perhaps I’ll pass by those same flowers again and they will release the strains from my shoulders and I can look up at the hazy clouds and exhale deeply.

But I know how hard that will be because, almost as though by muscle memory when I enter our home, I aim for my room instantly to feel my grandmother’s dress once again. It’s crazy how my grandmother's perfume still lingers on the hand-sewed dress carried from Yemen. I crumble to the floor in a dishevelled heap, my vision turning blurry. I close my eyes and inhale. There’s no way I can simply forget, but this dress, this dress will bring me closer. It's as though I’m running through the hallways blaring my voice, “When will dinner be ready!”, shaking off my shoes and hearing my mother's and grandmother's voices overlap into one sound. If a smell can bring comfort, it is this dress. A smell that erases time and location, launching the mind to the past. I yearn for my grandmother’s bread and spilt mocha on kitchen counters in the mornings, to her laughter and wrinkles, and the sway of her shoulders as she listens to the radio. I thrust the dress into me, lungs lapping greedily, I feel her arms, she is where I want to be, her smiling face shining at me; the rustic aroma of coffee on her fingers dries my tears, my bedroom is only to the right–but I am here, in the midst of wind and rain, seeking the warmth of my grandmother.

Staring at the dress in my arms, I lean my head against the wall. I have no idea when I’m going back. Yet even if I leave, I don’t want to leave like this. The last time I considered this, I completely lost my appetite. I’m just never the best at handling change. But isn’t home where you are? Sometimes, most times actually, it doesn’t feel like that at all. I think I’m adamant that the little world I envision in my head, a world I made a home in my mind, with never any plan to relocate, could never be transferred to the real world. That my Malak, my grandmother, my shop, would only ever be safe in the confines of my mind. Even the thought of them shifting into reality makes me uncomfortable, scared even, because I was at peace with how I envisioned them to be. While things that are tangible will disappear, my memories of them will remain forever. And I always knew that after leaving home, I would never be the same person, and I knew straight away that that was something only a few people would understand, or even deem rational.

Shifting my eyes to look out my window, I know how hard I have been trying my best to silence this restlessness because being here only makes Yemen seem bigger and makes my heart yearn for it more. I have been practising enjoying exactly where I am; sitting near a window and admiring trees; making pizza for the whole family; watching a film at the theatre—even if the moment is not exactly what I want it to be, like riding a packed bus full of armpits or being stuck in the middle of awkward conversations, I try to find new beauties and memories in my surrounding. I’m trying to embrace the rain in all its forms; thunder, drizzle, or snow. In a series of moments leading to hope, then losing hope altogether, I yield myself to continue onwards with slight staggering steps much like a deer’s first steps on a new world. I comfort myself that no matter how much suffering, there will always be love. And so, I should continue to live with a little bounce to my heels, with a content smile to the strange folks and with love for all things foreign but that have become mundane in my current life.

With that as my final thought, I close my eyes and exhale yet another puff of air with the hope that tomorrow there will be sun.