Letters To L

𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

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I could hear the familiar ringing sound once again though my mind wasn't able to differentiate whether it was coming from my head or the phone lying in front of me. Though the heavy pounding on the side of my head was a clear indicator that the ringing was due to the excruciating pain that I was feeling, the type of pain that wasn't physical.

My hands shook as I placed them against my chest, where I consistently tried to rub away the burning sensation I was feeling while my stomach was twisting into knots. I thought that if I closed my eyes I would wake up from this horrid nightmare, however, the sounds of anguish that echoed throughout the house claimed otherwise.

I was unaware that four days after my fourteenth birthday mid-September, I would receive the news of my beloved uncle's sudden passing, the man that I constantly wished to meet again though life managed to snatch that away without any remorse.

With his passing, the happiness that came along with my birthday celebration died down, the decorations were left hanging on walls for days and the remaining half of the red velvet cake sat in the fridge untouched. I lingered over the special moments I had with him, the sinking feeling of regret felt indescribable, and I longed for more time with him.

The memories from my first trip to Afghanistan in 2012 at the age of eight repeated throughout my head, reminding me of my initial interactions with my maternal side of the family. I remember my curious eyes observing the tall tan-skinned man dressed in black Afghan clothing, his aura causing him to stand out in comparison to his six other siblings.

My ears would take in his booming laughter which could be heard from the rooftop of our ancestral mud-brick villa. I would gaze at the unique silver chain around his neck which he never took off, always wishing I could have a similar chain. Though six years later, my grandmother gave me the same silver chain as a keepsake after my uncle's passing.

I remember the ride on the back of his dark red motorcycle, the way his eyes would crinkle near the corners and dimples would appear when he smiled once the engine would come to life. My uncle would constantly reassure me through his dark eyes, while also patting me on the leg once in a while as we rode along the black roads in Kandahar. The wind twirled with my hair creating its own synchronized dance, while also toying with the ends of my uncle's black and white plaid scarf.

The hour-long ride he made just to stop by a single store miles away from home, where they sold western snacks and foods. His loving gaze would move my way, urging me to grab any food I liked since I was a picky eater and unable to eat a lot of cultural dishes.

As the last shovel of fresh soil was splayed across his grave, the realization that the man whom I thought I would have endless opportunities to meet with and have never-ending conversations with would be buried before my eyes. His age was forever preserved as twenty-four while I aged from fourteen to eighteen, though the news of his death feels as fresh as the soil that was laid across his grave on the day of his burial.

My uncle's passing taught me to dedicate time to my loved ones and create more memories with them. Staying up until late despite the drowsiness and exhaustion from the day just to make sure that I have an opportunity to call my grandparents in Afghanistan despite the time zone difference. Being on the phone with them for hours, engraving their words and voices that carry nothing but warmth into my mind.

The young age at which my uncle passed away created this lingering fear that one day I might awaken and the ones that I love might be gone before I can utter a parting goodbye. The unfair game of life ruled by time and death doesn't wait for anyone.

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