Two years ago today, I was dancing in the kitchen while processing six boxes of apples from a local food bank into applesauce for distribution. It was the height of the pandemic, and I had somehow, in that way that is uniquely me, ended up accidentally setting up a small scale food distribution network for my city. I’m still not really sure how that happened.
I was peeling applies when my phone rang. It was my parents’ number, and I answered with a cheerful “Hi Mama!”
Except it wasn’t my Mama. It was my Dad. I could hear the struggle in his voice.
“Your mom is dead.”
“What happened?”
“I made coffee, then sent your niece to wake her up. When she couldn’t I went but she was gone.”
“Okay”
“We’re waiting on the ambulance. I thought you should know.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll call you later.”
His voice was breaking. I kept mine as steady as I could. You have to understand, for us, this was as emotional a conversation as I had ever had with my Dad before this point. He and I were always the strong ones. Vulcans, almost. We don’t do feelings well. My mother and sister were, are always so sentimental. They’re ruled by emotions and they’ve always been that way. My sister puts her emotions on display, with LEDs and giant billboards and flashing lights and an entire dance troupe and fireworks. My mom was a broadway show every time she had a feeling.
My dad and I punch each other in the arm and nod our heads and if we’re feeling especially sentimental, might drop a teasing “I don’t like you very much, but I love you, I guess.”
To hear his voice breaking damn near broke me.
It didn’t even hit me that my Mom was gone until a little while later, when I realized I wasn’t gonna get to ask her for her goddamn ملوخية recipe. And I so wanted to make that for dinner that day.
It’s two years later, today. And I found some recipes she sent me, for shish barak and something else I can’t remember last week. They’re in her broken English with her awful English spelling, but it didn’t matter, I cried anyway. We didn’t always get along, but we always bonded over cooking. We could fight and argue like it was the end of the world, but we would put whatever aside so we could sit in the kitchen and hollow out and stuff koosa.
I still can’t accept that she’s gone. I’m still not okay with it. I can’t accept it and I would be lying if I said that I don’t want to throw myself to the ground and scream and kick and throw the biggest tantrum ever until the gods decide to give her back to me. If only I thought it would work. If only I believed hard enough.
My mother and I look so much alike we could be twins. I miss her face, and I can’t look at mine without thinking of her. And I can’t think of hers without that overwhelming grief.
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