A De-Forgotten Song, an Antidote, a Last Post

أَخير

root: ء-خ-ر / adjective / definition: last

Something usually goes wrong in the first few days of me living alone.

This time? I almost got locked out of the house, thanks to a jammed lock (remedied with olive oil, what else?)—oh, and I almost poisoned myself.

After messaging my sister to make sure she had a spare key (in case she needed to come to my rescue), I picked myself up off the floor and brewed a ginger tea (her advice) to allay the nausea. It worked in a sip. Who knew.

And that’s not the only thing I’ve been brewing.

I recently discovered that adding sugar-free rose syrup to my Americano tastes like Istanbul: like the nostalgic, bitter sweetness of cigarettes and Turkish delights.

That feels healing too, but I can’t quite put my finger on why.

I haven’t just been sipping on teas and coffees, though. I decided to sweep the garden today, but froze when I realised I didn’t know which direction to sweep in.

Standing there—with the garden broom and sore arms—I was reminded of a photo of my grandma in Cyprus, sweeping an endless, dusty field on her family’s farm. We never quite understood what or why she was sweeping, but it seemed she felt purposeful.

I visited her on Friday and asked her about the words my mum used to sing after doing our hair when we were kids. Somehow, even though she repeated it every day throughout our childhood, our mum forgot the words. And so did we.

But my nene helped me to de-forget:

Saç aşağı

Gız yukarı

Ayda garıç

Yılda gulaç

(May her hair grow down (long), may the girl grow up (tall), may her hair grow a quarter-length in a month, and hand-to-chest length in a year.)

After braiding or tying my hair, Mum would sing it three times over, placing one of her fists on top of my head and hitting it rhythmically with her other fist. When she reached the last line of the third rendition, she’d hit a little harder, then run her hands down the side of my head and face.

I remember always thinking it felt like she’d cracked an egg on my head. I wonder if she knew why she was doing it.

(Let me know if you have anything similar in your own cultures.)

Speaking of traditions: I can’t help but think of my tradition of writing twice-a-week on here. I think about the future of this blog, I think about when the last post will be. I think about what I would lose (other than momentum) if I decided to stop writing tomorrow.

That image of my grandma sweeping a dusty field flashes in front of my eyes once more.

I did finally decide on a direction to sweep, by the way. But it still feels like a job with no end in sight.

.في أمان الله