March 3

His memory only allows him so much. And as every year goes by less and less of it remains. Certain recesses in the Attic hold on to sharp vivid moments. The rest is a mixture of sensory decay, nostalgic distortion, and truth.

He remembers her being protective. Taking him to his first day at kindergarten. Standing up against that arts and crafts teacher the same year for smacking him. Being on his side when he really wanted something, like that new dirt-bike every summer. Gently feeding him jello after he had his tonsils removed. Taking him to his X-ray appointment after his accident in PE class. Hugging him during her afternoon naps.

He remembers how she dreamt of his future. She’d always wanted him to be a doctor, wanted to see him in a white robe tending to people’s illnesses. She thought it was glamorous – he laughed occasionally. She always wished him the best for his future, that people love him, and that he be happy.

What he remembers the most are random lucid moments when he knew she was happy. Today these memories are triggered with whiff of Givenchy perfume, or the hum of a chorus line from an old Egyptian soundtrack. Chimes of traditional Greek music, or the smell of fudge brownies and sugar pastries. The light from the stars illuminating her lap as she sat in the passenger seat of the car next to his father – both children in the back – she hummed and tapped her finger to Abdel Halim Hafez. He had his head resting on the backseat, eyes half open, with the obliviousness of childhood engraving the silhouette in his mind and labelling it with a blue crayon – home.

His memory allows him his fair share of painful memories, too. Her moods and tantrums over the years as her disease made her more and more disabled. Her moans of agony in the middle of the night, those long days when he worked so hard to keep her temperature low. That day at the bank when she could not even sit up. Those last few days of her life when she returned from London, yellow and incapable of breathing. The trickle of blood from her mouth after she let out her last breath.

He knows it made him tough, he knows her soul is somehow putting his own in the right direction. He’s grateful for the memories, grateful to his Creator for how things turned out. He’s grateful, even though his worst fear as a child, lying down in the backseat of a car, came true…far too soon.

In Memory of Shadia Nassar
March 3, 1955- Sept. 18, 2001