Right Where You Left Me
words by Ayat Younis, art by Katherine Shi
The woman in the mirror looks just like me. She studies me, our matching past tattooed across our faces, with a tilted graduation cap, an unironed gown, and the glistening shadow of our mother. The mirror is a haunting reminder that she’s gone, and the more time passes the more I misplace our similarities. I’ve lost the silky black hair we used to share, and my eyes shine nowhere near as bright. I throw my cap and gown in the middle of the room, a place that reminds me of my inability to complete a task. Sketches paused midway because I could already envision failure, bookmarks placed halfway in my novels, and dried-out paints. Every apartment, every house, and every space I have owned is filled with pieces of me, rather than building myself up as a whole.
As I place my diploma on my dresser, I note the unfinished painting lying next to the plane ticket. It stares back at me, inviting me to just try it, like a one-time drug. What good would it do? It’ll take me to an airport, to a car, and to a house, but not a home. A feeling of belonging that was once attached to the ticket I worked overtime to pay for is gone, knowing Mama won’t be waiting for me when I arrive.
But it’s non-refundable. I pick it up and eye the dusty suitcase in the corner of my room, only to start throwing everything I own in it.
“The whispers of her adolescence greet me in the hallways, as my mother’s laugh seeps through each of the walls. ”
Airports have always felt like never-ending tunnels. Every gate and every terminal will take you somewhere different, but how many will bring you back to where you’re from? The shiny grey walls of New York, Frankfurt, and Jordan all look the same as if I have been walking in a circle for 48 hours. Three airports later, clover blooms peak in the fields, while the sun gently shakes me awake as I inhale my grandmother’s history lingering around me. The whispers of her adolescence greet me in the hallways, as my mother’s laugh seeps through each of the walls. Her paintings make up the characters of each room, displaying her talent as she ages. Teta greets me with a cup of chai and her engulfing smile. Her small, somewhat isolated home is a form of protection, preventing me from facing the massive world. Naiveté re-enters my body and silences the thousands of thoughts flowing around my mind. I have been quietly reborn into a world of simplicity and warmth, shielded from life’s complications.
Teta’s familiar hands lead me to the garden, where an empty canvas awaits, excited to be filled with life. Empty notebooks waiting to be brimming with confusing poetry. Novels begging to be read. She keeps everything, unlike the granddaughter standing in front of her. I am tempted to get rid of anything I receive before it is taken from me.
“She left them here. Not by choice, but now, it's only right you take them before someone else does,” she says gently, her hand covering mine. Suddenly, I’m right where she left me, and the dust has collected on the canvases. Her words wait in my mind, thinking about how someone else could feel entitled to my Teta’s home. A home I may have forgotten, but she and my mother never will. The olive branches swaying by the windows will remain, as will the rich smell of Shamouti oranges, even when their owners are gone. Yet, the concern is understandable after my uncle and cousin lost their home, their gardens, their history, and themselves.
“The paint fills each of my lines, and I am now covered in her.”
“Wait for me Mama!” the smaller version of me says running through the garden towards her arms. Her twinkling smile greets me and her warrior arms swing me in the air. As my little body catches its breath, she opens the door to Teta’s shed, now a miniature art room. Dried paint in every crack, and empty canvases reaching out to us.
Mama’s art should be a form of dance. It’s so graceful and effortless, as I struggle next to her attempting a measly sunflower.
“I can’t do it Mama, it’s too hard,” I pout.
“No my dear, it just takes time, and you will have many times to try with me,” she forcefully smiles.
A part of me felt like she was lying, and she was. Because once her name was called from outside the shed by a voice I had never recognized, I wouldn’t see Mama or our painting again.
Only amid my thoughts is when I note how small my hands have remained compared to Teta’s, unless mine have shrunk. A possibility I wouldn’t put past the enchantment of this place, a feeling I have regrettably forgotten.
My hand picks up the first tray of paint, and it falls all over me. And for once, I’m not indignant. The paint fills each of my lines, and I am now covered in her. My laugh sounds like the last girl who was here, the one who dreamed beyond her imagination. The ink is a familiar touch, with an aura I have been running from.
“‘Are we home?’ a question that surprises me, because home was never a word we learned. ”
In the bathroom, the paint refuses to come off, clinging on like my skin is its original home. As I continue to rub, the blood peeks out from under, washing away under the paint. No amount of soap removes the stains, and my last effort is looking in the mirror in defeat.
I’m uncomfortable and scared of who stares back at me. Not the mother I knew who I wanted a glimpse of, but instead, a younger version of me, the girl I raised. It’s the optimistic version of me who wanted a hundred different careers, who had a smile that could never be robbed, and indestructible courage. The little girl stares confused at the woman who inherited her hobbies. Different physical attributes are obvious, but we share the same DNA, the same crooked giggle, the same uniquely placed mark, and the same longing for return.
She follows me outside the bathroom, taking note of the warm sunset, the minty ocean breeze, and the overarching safety of Teta’s house, trying to remember every detail in case she finds herself in the same shoes as her mother.
“Are we home?” a question that surprises me, because home was never a word we learned.
“Yes,” I respond gently, looking at my Teta and seeing every part of me glowing from her.
