My colleague asked us to keep an ear out for the horn sound of the sandwich van
It isn’t long before it arrives David rushes outside to get his wrap and I embarrassingly across the office ran
to the window opposing me, waving with my hand “Will you please wait, he’s coming down!”
Luckily I do the shouting bit all in my mind.
It's the first time, I've felt it in years the joy that jerks in the stomach like a plain canvas bursting with colours sunshine yellow and multiple shades of blue reminding me of Summer 2009
When we just had woken up from our nap to the sound of the candyfloss man
We’d rush to the balcony and shout “Will you please wait, we are coming down!”
With our tiny feet and unbuckled sandals we’d skip the stairs from the third floor to the ground
I'd hand him our sugar jar while my sister held out a tray and 5 Syrian pounds
Giddy with wonder I didn't realise my memory would sift the grains of this moment the candyfloss man the wrinkly caramel skin and the tired eyes the sweat drops on his forehead the big rough hands the sugar jar sunk into his palms
And when the show was about to start the kids circled the candyfloss wagon of this man whose name we never knew but we all called him عمو
The magic began the sugar burning in front of our eyes turning from granules into dust to reappear as a mesh of fluff and sparkles
“Woah this is the biggest pink cloud I’ve ever seen on Earth”
We nibbled on pieces of the sky
afloat in space and taste this weightless state was crafted by this man who had the strength of a dragon to push around this heavy cart
heart-to-heart his drive and livelihood were our smiles *but I still think he had a contract with the dentist downtown*
Little did we know the universe would tear us apart and lick its sticky fingers as we melted into its secret plans
David walks back in with a tuna panini in his hand and I I am still here cradling the joy that I felt for the first time in years
Perhaps it will linger longer and outlast the candyfloss dissolving in our mouths
Is She Real?
When my 4-year-old cousin answers the video call I'm 24
Thanks to technology I get to meet him through a phone hear his voice and see his hair grow
soft and dark and full of innocence just like the question to my aunt:
“Mama, is she real?”
We burst into laughter He took us by surprise Few seconds after:
That sounds so bizarre!
I struggle to define my dimensions or provide him with an answer but I say “yes” to summarise
When my 4-year-old cousin was born I was at university, studying life and evolution the formation of an exquisite zygote
the art of haemopoiesis, a stem cell embracing its fate as blood, the dancing of a cardiomyocyte, after it deciphers the rhythm of the heart
But at that point, it does not matter
When my 4-year-old cousin bruises this reality of mine, I am a sequence of 0s and 1s, multiplied thousands of times a moving image on a flat device
glitching, trying to prove its existence to pinpoint life in a simple direction no flesh nor breath
I feel like a god
I want him to believe that I'm there despite being far He draws two circles, one inside the other and asks where I am
As much as I desperately want to give him proof his earth is different to mine I point at the outer circle
a limitless sky
Teteh Samiyeh
My Teteh Samiyeh tells me her father-in-law bought her earrings when his son asked for her hand
She said she was surprised; a delicate gift, oval with a timeless design “That was the fashion back then, ‘خَدّ البنت’” the size of a young lady’s cheek
an heirloom that can easily be passed down but soon after my Jido had to sell them and she had to be fine with that
My Teteh Samiyeh gave birth to eight, Aunt Rima was the last Her favourite is the eldest, Uncle Ahmad the one who deals with the family crap
She swears every single Mother’s Day that she adores her sons and daughters just the same but when she’s called “Em Ahmad” an exclusive glint in her eyes gives it away
My Teteh raised all her kids to be kind. My father says “That’s the problem, she was never sharp, or strict enough – she has a soft heart.”
Maybe she’s not perfect but her hands are the size of lily pads, wide enough to take in so much sun
make labneh wraps, do neck and belly massages – the neighbours would knock on Em Ahmad’s door when their babies cried of cramps
Before she had to flee, Em Ahmad, Samiyeh or Sam had a built-in wardrobe behind her seat It’s the first art gallery I ever visited as a child
Its wooden door was white and plain You’d never imagine so much magic was hidden inside, folded wrapping paper, vintage photographs
tins, bottles and plastic bags their fate was recycled by her hands Here’s a Hawaiian lei, a colourful rag rug pencil cases and toothbrush containers
She unravelled every massive old jumper and re-knitted it into hats and shawls of all kinds a puddle of threads and shredded cloth and in the middle, a lotus, was Samiyeh
She taught me the alphabet of her love language the charm of wild flowers and handmade gifts She left a token in every house in town Friends and strangers were equal in her eyes
Maybe she’s not perfect but her plump, floppy arms are a warm waterbed, she rocked us to sleep so many times
narrating folk stories about tetehs who’d sprinkle food with spice from an empty jar labelled “حب”
sharing tales about a girl my age who sang to the carpenter next door to help her escape from a wolf who’d crept inside her home
يا جارنا النّجار, تعال شوف شو عندي بالدّار في ديب بدّو يأكلني Ya jarna nijar, ta‘al shoof shoo ‘andee bedar… fee deeb bado yakolnee
It took me years to realise that the wolf was a metaphor and the singing out loud was a way to survive
She shamed and blamed with a velvety tone and brows pulled tight but only when a young lady was dressed in black “There’ll be time for that! Now go and put on something bright”
She worried for us more than she should have My Teteh, Em Ahmad, Samiyeh or Sam she’s not perfect
but her gapped teeth are Her jawbone had to compromise: either closer teeth or a bigger smile
Her body chose the latter for some souls stretch smiles wider than bones allow
58 years later, on Facetime Teteh sees me wearing earrings the size of a young lady’s cheek and smiles with nostalgic eyes
As if I could read her mind I know Teteh would have wished to pass an heirloom down but instead she gave me way more
Sara Taha Hajj Ahmad is a Cell & Gene Therapy Consultant but also, a humble poet in the making. Rooted in Levantine (Syrian) culture with a hint of the British lifestyle, her work focuses on resilience through joy and memory. Currently, she is working on a poetry chapbook of portraits and treasured moments.
