But I was twelve, and I didn’t care, because the pink bow was too tight on my head.
Now this apartment is frozen in time.
We didn’t change a thing.
We couldn’t.
If we did, then her ghost would be gone. The wisps of her clinging to this apartment would disappear. Maybe if we left everything as it was, an unknown blessing she had would survive after death, and we’d see her in this apartment. Maybe she’d come back.
I take off my shoes and place them on the rack before walking to my room. The front door opens as soon as I shut my own door.
My room is a burst of turquoise, gold, forest green, and maroon I can’t see. When Amal finally moved out two years ago, it became fully mine. The very first night, I brought out my brushes, stood on my chair, and started painting the ceiling. It took a week to complete, and I had to open the window for some air, but it was worth it. Sea-green waves crashing on golden sands. A San Francisco beach. And then on the walls surrounding me, I painted the redwoods. Their rusty-brown trunks and the rich green leaves.
For now, they’re my reality until I can really see them.
In this room, I can breathe.
I change into pajamas Mama bought in Syria and flop onto my bed. The frills on the side are worn out, and the printed letteringToday and tomorrow is sunshinehas faded. Mama, Amal, and I would laugh at the obscure sentences used on Syrian clothing, trying to discern the original intention.
I lie on my bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, until my phone pings with a message and I glance at it.
Lexi:how was the station?
Lexi:wanna come over this weekend?
Lexi:you need to do something other than staying in ur room and working
Lexi:you’ve been doing just that all summer. It’s not healthy
Lexi:u can be sad of course
Lexi:but let me be there so you’re not alone
I bite my lip.
Lexi:any update on your eyes?
Alexis has been asking that every single day. She was the first person I told when the shock settled into grim reality. I told her before I told Amal. Even though Alexis no longer lives in this apartment building, she came over a lot when we were younger. Her mother was still working, and Mama offered to have Alexis here for the afternoons so she wasn’t alone in her apartment. Alexis became very familiar with Mama’s stories and believes them wholeheartedly.
Before I can decide whether to respond to Alexis’s texts, a knock on my door startles me.
“Come in?” I say after three seconds.
Baba opens the door, and I sit up. He doesn’t fill in the space like he used to. He’s somehow shrunk this past year.
“I made dinner,” he says in Arabic, and his voice falls flat. It doesn’t find the crevices in this apartment to settle into but hangs awkwardly. I wonder if what’s left of Mama in this place shudders every time she hears us speak, and maybe that’s the reason our voices are strange in a place that was once home.
“Dinner?” I repeat, dumbfounded.
Baba hasn’t made dinner in ages. And neither have I.
“Yes.” Baba looks suddenly exhausted. Like the few words he’s said have taken up everything in him.
He moves toward the kitchen, and I follow, curious.
I blink a few times, readjusting my eyes, to take in what’s on the dining table. It looks like a pot of simmering shakriyeh, a yogurt-based dish with pieces of meat suspended in it that’s served with burghal. He even laid out two dishes.
We sit, and I notice the chopped onions and pita bread cut in half placed neatly together on a plate. He made an effort.
