Our home was busy.
The constant movement of people coming in and out of the house, the doorbell that chimed several times a day, the clatter and inviting smell coming from the kitchen, the voices of students practicing their English during private lessons with Mama, the guests attending the monthly prayer hosted by my parents, the ringing of the phone lines, the car honks towards the end of the day signaling Papa was home from work.
Our home was full of warmth. Full of love expressed through Papa's jokes, Mama's cooking, our time together, our conversation over meals, our prayer time together, and even our fights.
Now the home feels different. It still offers warmth through the memories it preserves. But it is much, much quieter.
I lay down on the cold floor, listening intently, looking for their voices, the noise, the presence and at the same time trying to make sense of the silence the house now holds.
Now I watch the light fall onto the walls of our home and the abstract patterns of shadows that move slowly across them.
I look at Mama’s adenium collection. They continue to produce flowers and are still neatly occupying the white iron shelf - now marked with blotches of rust here and there. I remember how much she loved this collection.
The frangipani trees that Mama planted many years ago are now taller than our house, producing constant blooms. In the morning, I collect the flowers that have fallen to the ground, breath in their scent, and place them in Mama and Papa’s room.
Several cats are now semi-permanent residents of our carport and terrace. Mama would probably object, but Papa would probably welcome them. I climb the stairs to the second floor and am immediately greeted by the memory of Papa’s resilience in ensuring the TV antenna did its job, delivering perfect visuals.
I open their wardrobe and touch their hanging clothes. I embrace them in a hug, bury myself in the pile, try to remember what their hugs felt like.
I embrace the silence. I let it hold me.
