Every step I take, every move I make
Every single day, every time I pray
I’ll be missing you
Thinking of the day, when you went away…….
Every day we pray for you
Till the day we meet again….
This song was on the TV. I never really listened to the lyrics before. It’s sad and three days after the 32nd anniversary of my father’s death, the sentence „till the day we meet again“ made me think. What would I tell my father if I would meet him again?
A strange thought I know, but I wanted to imagine this situation.
„Hello Baba. I’m sure you recognize me. I know you were watching me all the past years. Wish you could have stayed longer. I missed you.“
What he would say? I didn’t think of that. I only thought of my part of the speech. I thought I could tell him „Wish you would have had the chance to meet your grandchildren“ but no. Sure I wish he had, but I would be telling him he missed so much. Or I could say „Baba, I’m just selling the house you started to build“ but I would be telling him I’m selling your dream of living in your house with your family. I want to tell him something that says: „you left but continued living in me.“
I found it, this is what I’ll tell him „Baba, I didn’t get to know you well. You left so early. I tried my best to keep you in my memory and it was you who made it possible for me. I am so grateful for that one day you spent with me alone. As if you were giving me a gift for my life, a memory I can hold on to whenever I miss you or when I’m afraid I might forget you.
Do you remember that day? It must have been only a few weeks before you left. I was eight. You asked me on a Friday morning if I would like to join you. I had a soar throat but I wanted to go with you so I didn’t tell you.I sat on the front seat in the car and I felt myself so grown up. We talked the whole way from our house to the street of Abu Noaas on the riverside of the Tigris. You told me that you have put the ashtray I gave to you on your birthday, on your desk in the office. I was so happy. I told you how I made that copper ashtray. You laughed because I gave you an ashtray but always asked you to stop smoking. Talking about smoking you lit a cigarette. You know when I recall your picture in my mind that’s how I see you: a grey suite, a white shirt, your omega watch on your wrist and a cigarette in you hand. The smell of your aftershave and the smoke complete the picture.
Looking back, it was good you didn’t stop smoking. After all it was not the cigarette that killed you at 45.
You parked the car and I told you my throat is aching, you took me to the juice shop of Jabaar Abu el Sharbat and you bought me a pomegranate juice. You told me „the best medicine for a soar throat is pomegranate. If you can’t get fresh juice you can take a spoon of pomegranate syrup. But the syrup is very sour, you will not like it.“ You know, three years later, I was sick and your mother gave me a dark red, almost black syrup. It was the pomegranate syrup you told me about. When I took a spoon-full in my mouth, I remembered you. It was so sour I thought my teeth will shatter. It was horribly sour. You were right I didn’t like it.
Well, sure you remember what we did after that? We went to a traditional fish restaurant. I could never have gone there again as a grown up lady. They were only for men. But for an eight-year-old girl it was fine to join her father. We met two friends of you and I felt as if I was the most important girl in the universe. Although I’m sure that you talked with your friends, in my memory everyone was talking with me, from the restaurant owner to the nice waiter who served the grilled fish. I think I had to answer the questions „what’s your name?“ and „how old are you?“ more than 5 times.
We ate the fish with our fingers. You showed me how to remove the bones carefully. I used to eat everything with you. I never hesitated to put a frog leg or a snail in my mouth as long as you were eating it too. You enjoyed food so much; watching you eat made me want to join you. After finishing the fish, you took me to the washing room to wash my hand. It seems you knew they had no soap. You picked the lemon slice from the plate and rubbed my hands with it and you told me one more thing I kept in mind since then „when you have no soap, use a lemon. It takes away the grease and the bad smell.“
Those things, a lemon slice on a plate with fish, a spoon of pomegranate syrup I add to a salad dressing and a lot of other small details keep you present in my life.
Thank you Baba.“