A silent cry

[14] a pretty past

(On the roof watching the moon)

Somehow it always looks different, one day the clouds would be covering it as it passes through them. Other times it's completely dark and the moon is the only light in sight. On certain days when I stepped out earlier, I saw the stars spread in the sky as if arranging in a way to greet the moon. I see now what it is that Abbas loved so much about the moon, it never remains the same. Every time you think it can't change after this, I've seen all its forms somehow you stare at it the next day and it looks better than the rest of the times you've seen it. it just gets better.
" ya Allah, wherever Abbas is and if he's watching the moon right now fill him with strength and happiness" I mumble under my breath gazing at the moonlit sky.

Maryam comes from behind me "you do this every day?" I nod and It seemed like she was remembering what was written in the letter from Abbas. She looks over at the roofs next to us and breaks the silence with memories from our childhood. When my aunt wouldn't let me have any friends over, Maryam would jump from her roof to the one near us and I would open my window for her. We recalled all the times we ran out on the roofs to see who can run the fastest. An erring look can be seen in Maryam's eyes as she begins tucking her robe from around her waist area into her pants so that it would be above her ankles. I shake my head in disagreement at whatever she's planning.

"Come on, like how we used to, "
She begs as if I can ever join her, I haven't done something like that in so long "how much you want to bet I can still make it without being caught" she had a look that said I'm going to do it whether you bet on anything or not

"What if they see you, you're a grown woman now ya khabla" (khabla means dummy) before I could finish she had started running towards the other roof. I try to clasp the edge of her robe but it slid through my fingers. She quickly lapses over three roofs and lifts herself up onto the fourth. I wave my arms at her telling her to run back now before she gets caught. She waves her arms in victory ignoring my hand signals. We hear the sound of feet in one of the yards and she dashes back, I kneel down so no one could see me and she hunches over when she runs. She was crazy if anyone found out they would say we're filtat ras .فلتات راس.
(Meaning someone who acts brazenly)

she falls directly near me and I catch her. we both laugh and fall onto the floor. We gaze at each other in relief as memories of those days run through our heads. I missed those days. The weather always felt kind and warm. The streets had always felt like a safe place and the roofs were like trampolines and meeting spots. The dough we would steal from our mothers and mount into teacups and kettles and then we would pretend to be grown-ups serving each other tea while gossiping about every single detail in the town. I can't believe it, I had buried these memories so long ago. How can I bury so many good things?

Then I remember my favorite memory, during late Thursday nights Maryam would sneak onto the roof and I would open the window to my uncles' house expecting her. On Fridays, there was no school and she would stay up with us on Thursday nights. My mama, sister, and I would lock the door to our room and turn on the candles since the electricity seemed to always go off. we would sit around the window and Maryam would tell her stories with the stars aligned in the sky behind her. she was a storyteller and a great actor.

"Those days were so innocent and easy," she says clenching her jaw in deep thought.

"Do you still tell stories?" I asked and she shook her head from side to side sadly

"Why did you stop?"

"Nobody cares, no one wanted to listen to fantasies, this is the real world" she tries to shrug it off like it's no big deal

but I saw her, she had a grim tone, she missed telling stories and it was clearly written all over her face.

"I wanted to be a storyteller Hadiya, I wanted to write stories and share them with everyone. When we were kids everyone listened but everything changed when we grew up, my family said it's a waste of time" noticing the depleted look on her face I didn't say anything. It was true over time everything changed but her stories were not a waste of time.

"How about a story right now for old times sake" I look at her with puppy eyes mouthing please like I used to do when we were younger.

she hesitates for some time, looking up "Okay but tomorrow I will tell it, I have to perfect it in my head first" I gave her the brightest smile I could. I was glad I get to hear one of her stories again.

***

In my bed that night I was staring at the ceiling thinking about all the good times we shared. Not just me and Maryam but me and my family as well. There was so much more than just misery, I shouldn't let that be my only memory of them. I remember my sister sleeping next to me as we made fun of our aunt when she would get angry. I remember us joking around about everything that frustrated us only because it made light of the situation, or how we could never take anything seriously and laughed at the worst times. I remembered how we would stay up laughing beneath the sheets trying to muffle our laughter with the pillows while my mom quietly yelled at us to sleep.

I remembered the writing on the wall when I would walk to the souq with my uncle or mom. " THE WORLD IS ENDING SOON" written boldly across the street wall, it always scared me. I remembered rushing past it being afraid that I won't grow up because the world was going to end. a gentle smile forms on my lips and I laugh at the thought of how badly I had wanted to grow up. how badly I wanted to live. yet I am so grateful that I got to live, that I got to meet abbas, that I'm pregnant, that I actually grew up and was given time to live. that I saw my sister in a wedding dress, that although she isn't near me anymore, Allah is watching over her.

I remembered how my mother constantly chased me around the house teaching me all the chores to help prepare me to be more independent so that I wouldn't need to ask anyone for help with cooking, cleaning, or any task. She didn't want me to depend on anyone for help other than Allah. I remember her reciting the Quran over me every time I told her something was hurting me. Her gentle hands on my back and her soothing voice reciting slowly. I remembered how she would always smell like bakhoor, no matter what she cooked  I never remember her smelling bad. She always smelled so good. A yawn escapes my mouth and I run my hand over my tummy thinking about the new family I have. Indeed my lord had always been kind to me but I chose to remember the bad days from a thousand good ones.