Scraps of Paper

It's the little things that remind me of you; that i hold onto, in hopes of it triggering that memory, over and over and over again.  I want to remember you; I want to remember every last moment of that week.  I want to remember, and ponder, and tear up and hurt inside.  I want my heart to feel; I want to remember you.

I want to remember you as i drive down the long empty highway.  I want to think of you as i look into the horizon; the blue skies, the white clouds, the setting sun.  I want to tear up and feel the ouch.  I want to cry as i think of you, baba.

I dig into my pocket and pull out a piece of folded up paper, torn off of a master sheet.  I'm taken aback; it's your insurance number, written in your handwriting.  Or maybe it's mama's but you wrote it for me when i took her to an appointment, and i folded it up and put it in my pocket.  Actually, it is your insurance number.  That was the jilbab i wore on one of those short days i spent with you in the hospital.  one of those last days.  That note was written in your handwriting, your good, strong, solid penmanship.  And I remember.

I remember the day before your passing, when you brought all your energy together, pulled together all your remaining wit, concentrated so so fully on signing your name, one. last. time. on that sheet of paper.  that last will and testament that Muhammed and I just couldn't read out loud to you.  Just couldn't.  We tried.  We passed it back and forth, each one of us thinking that he would be the one who could pull himself together.  Reading two words and stopping as our voices shook and our eyes clouded over.  The other one pulling the paper from the other, starting all over.  And then you said, "Don't you know what it says? If it's good, then I'm find with it." And of course I cried more. 

You summoned everything you still had to keep your thoughts straight, to stay awake, to think clearly in front of that notary public.  You held your shaking hands steady, as steady as possible, and s l o w l y signed with that steady stroke- one. last. time.  Esam.  cursive, with the m stretc h i n g into a straight line that bent underneath into another line, a chair for the Abdallah.  But that's where your energy dissipated and the Abdallah came out unsteady, almost gibberish, so unlike your beautiful handwriting.  I cried. I still cry.  thinking of how you signed every check of yours with such beauty. such itkan.  perfection.  pride.  pride in your name, your father's name- your grandfather's name.  beauty and pride. 

and i hold on to that scrap of paper.  it stays in my pocket for another day.  another day when i will wear that jilbab once again, and absentmindedly stick my hand into that pocket, fingering a scrap of paper and wondering what it holds.  Opening it up and bringing back a rush of memories.  thinking, remembering, thanking God for that one more opportunity to remember, fingering it, and letting the mind roam.

fatima