A Lyrid of Memories
A few days ago, I read an article about a Lyrid meteor shower peaking around mid-April. Shooting stars in the middle of a pandemic? Call me a hopeless romantic because I am there with my navy blanket, which might have been borrowed from one of many MEA flights based on the label. I am half-hanging outside my roof in the middle of the night in the company of some local algae and the promise of stardust. The neighbour next door goes out to brush his teeth, you can’t see much through the fuzzy glass and although we’ve never spoken, I can almost tell you the top hits on his playlist. You know, kudos to that London thin wall life, unintended intimacy.
But I digress, you have one stargazing app on your phone and suddenly you are this aficionado. So allow me to paint you a picture. It’s the 22nd of April 2020, the evening of said Lyrid meteor showers, and my mind is suddenly transported to the last time I saw a shooting star, it must have been over 15–18 years ago now. A memory that I didn’t know even existed came flashing into my head: It was night-time and Diana, my cousin (more like a sister really), was sat beside me. We were on a creaking old swing at my Teta’s house; that thing creaked even though we oiled it on a weekly basis. I remember how it felt, we weren’t supposed to be there, Teta would have yelled her lungs out. I can’t remember if we were there for one of our many horror movie marathons, common theme in Teta sleepover. Horror movies were things we weren’t supposed to be watching. I remember it was chilly and it was pitch dark, the illuminating screen from that brick laptop being the only light around. And that ladies and gents was the night Diana and I saw our first shooting star. The memory feels like diluted excitement and wonder mixed with a hint of nostalgia. And much like that shooting star, nothing but a fleeting trail of light burning through the sky, the memory and its surrounding feelings disappear as soon as they appear, leaving but a trace of warmth in your heart.
Next, I did what any adult would do, send Diana a super corny voice-note, asking if she remembered our first shooting star. She replies with enthusiasm, she too had long buried this memory, and proceeds to describe her version of it, our common denominator being the chill of the night and that extremely creaky swing.
What happens next? A quarantine classic, a Zoom call. Last time we actually saw each other was two years ago and so we spend a couple of hours on the phone, taking a long stroll on memory lane. We are necromancers of the night. We raise memories that we thought were long dead and buried, some that we doubt their validity. As she recalls some that have been wiped blank from my mind and I do the same, and still, between the both of us we fail to date any of them.
Diana starts by recalling the day my little brother essentially pooped in my Teta’s hand as an infant, and even though that sounds gross, the detail she describes the story in is quite fascinating. I, on the other hand have zero recollection of this, maybe I blocked it out of my head. Trauma.
We remember the time she bit my arm so hard that it bled, one of many fights we used to have. I don’t remember why, but I do remember Mama questioning me about the violent bite marks. We fought a lot at Teta’s, particularly on that balcony facing the park, which was always locked. A lot of it was over Barbie dolls, the rest I can’t quite remember. But Diana, you had a history of biting, you also almost bit Salim, poor Salim, wish I could remember what he had said to instigate that.
We remember how she had a crush on the boy next door, Ibrahim. And I’ll be honest, I secretly had a crush on his brother, Omar. She remembers being flustered and showing him her new braces, him turning away, “why do they look like that”? Boys….. I wonder what happened to the brothers now.
We remember Alar and Venom, two massive dogs at Teta’s, that place was almost an animal shelter. We remember how terrified I was of dogs in general and how terrified she was when they sent her on a run around the house, Diana must’ve lapped at least 10 times around the Teta’s as the rest of us laughed, I’m sorry, it is still funny to this day. We also remember Alma, the sad dog who died, not sure if it was the chocolate or the sadness of losing her pups and old owner, but she looked sad all the time and I’m pretty sure she used to cry. And then came Rocky, the dog who bit anyone Teta called Habibi; he disappeared one day and never came back. Rumour has it, someone in the family wanted him out.
We remember finding a dead bird, it was small and black and had a bright yellow beak, we held it and buried it outside Teta’s house, around the white stones and took one and marked it with a small rusty poll. We even named the little fellow, probably something along the lines of Tweety. We tried to find him again a few days later, but the stones were re-shuffled. Tweety was lost to everyone but our memories.
We remember helping Teta pick up some green Zaa’tar (Thyme), I always complained about the thorns and nettles whereas Diana was much more of a natural on our little hikes. Teta was actually quite the trooper too, cutting through the mountain like a ranger in her element. We remember Jeddo falling asleep while sitting there and denying the fact that he was asleep when questioned.
We also remember him calling Diana “Ortaz Booza” affectionately, was it the hair bun?
We remember our colonie (is that how you spell it? Because calling it summer camp sounds lame - someone please tell me the etymology of this word), in the house that no longer exists now. There was this girl with long hair and a baggy green shirt that terrorised us, she had a funny name. Her accomplice, this other tall skinny guy, who in my head looks just like scar from the Lion King but I also firmly believe that was just how he made me feel. There was this girl whose voice was that of an infant’s, the cool girls with super lisse hair we wanted to hang out with (curly hair envy is a real thing), then there was our crew. And there was ZouZou, someone’s little brother, and a nursery(?) song that made him famous amongst the kids, and it goes a little like this:
زوزو صغير، وقع بالبير نطو علي الدبابير، نتوشو وعضوضو، هيدا زوزو المسكين
Attempt at translation: Little ZouZou, falls into a well, wasps get a hold of him, bite him, poor ZouZou. I know…..I wish I could offer an explanation.
We remember this other summer camp in that house by the sea, long-demolished now too, and this dance recital they were trying to get us do at the end of summer. Mine was a folkloric dance where I had to hold this boy’s hand for an extended period of time(EWWW), so I made up some elaborate story of why I can’t dance. I did go to the recital to cheer everyone on, that counts no? Diana did the same, the boy’s name was Sami and he was a ginger and she hated him for some reason. The dance required her to essentially be holding hands while in a super weird outfit. Notice a family trend about holding hands with the opposite sex? Let’s unpack that later, with a therapist.
Probably my now new favourite memory revealed over this tele-marathon was Diana remembering fighting with our aunt because she used to love the sound of baby food jars opening, that POP! She would sneak into the fridge and open them, my aunt would hear it, enter the kitchen and yell at her. Diana would proceed to write an apology note, left at the top of the stairs for dramatic effect.
Now memory regurgitation aside, this phone call made me realise just how much we need people around us, how much our lives are enriched by their presence, their touch, their smile, their scent, and even their memories. It made me think how diluted our current existence and memories would be without them. In a way, a real testament to the power of family and community bonds. Why we constantly walk this earth seeking a tribe, community, laughter, love. Somewhere or someone(s) to call home; who will witness life’s moments with you, who are there to paint your mind when you can’t conjure the memories yourself, and another life lens. We constantly look for warm spirits and crave human interaction, a reason why even home has felt that much lonelier and hollow lately. Memory has been a fuzzy thing these few weeks and this felt like a nice reminder that not all is lost. I am most grateful for all the people and places I get to call home.
Equally, this has also made me reflect on the beauty of life’s “mundane”, something I believe we have all been pondering recently with Coronavirus wreaking havoc to life, everywhere to say the least. Those little boring moments that you never thought mattered or that you’d remember. Come to think of it, what I had written earlier is a a list of pretty vague mundane things, a stroke of your grandmother’s hand, a dog barking, the shirt that your crush always wore, a funny conversation with a stranger, your grandfather’s straw hat and the dirty boots. Numerous rather mundane moments that paint our lives with vivid detail.
Diana, if you’re reading this, which you probably will be, because I will have sent you a link with a disclaimer, I am grateful to have lived my childhood and experienced these adventures by your side. I hope that we get the chance to weave and tell many more tales, despite the distance.
Oh, and I forgot to add, I did see one shooting star that night. It could have equally been an eye floater; for as you know by now, it was late and freezing, and I was suspended awkwardly from the roof. But for all intents and purposes, that April Lyrid meteor shower did not disappoint.
Here’s to more moments, mundane and otherwise, of life and love and the many lyrids of warmth they leave in their trail.
Stay safe, sane and loved.
