From Nagi Nourani. . .

It took several years before his memory vanished from the house, most especially his big laugh that broke the silence of cold winter nights. We re-painted the place light blue, instead of the light purple. He always liked purple. After he left us, our living room became the place where we slept. We grew a lemon tree, a big one, in front of our window. It blocks the garden chairs outside that were his favorite place to sit. We’ve grown so much since then.

An innocent tea break, a chilly breeze that surrounds us in the darkness of night, and a small light from the distant moon; we sit. Our wet lemon tree has a lovely and animating scent, like a song playing from very far away. Sometimes it gets louder; at other times it drifts away, the wind taking the comforting lemony aroma with its sails.

“He loved that song,” my mom said suddenly.

My mom never forgot. We all remained silent for so long. A flash of memory jolted us all. The house looked light purple again. The living room was no longer tidy, but messy with all his papers. Suddenly we were transported back in time. My mom got younger and her cheeks were red. The lemon song and the stillness of the night took back the years. We were not alone.

His death was so hard at first; the song could no longer sing. The kids left the house crying, the light blue color was cynical, our memories brought a future without him, and the song began to fade. Everything else was loud after he passed; the kids yelling, the noise of the knives hitting the plates while eating, the sound of emptiness, the deafening pain. I remember my mother wore a simple dress and a tired face on that day. Her soul was lost like a stolen bag. She felt she already lived more than she should have; so much sadness waited for her in the years ahead.

Many years have passed since that day. The kids are grown and don’t need their mom to study with them or cook dinner anymore. But sometimes, we all get together for a cup of hot tea and to enjoy the song. We breathe in the purple colors and the lemon scent. . . and remember.

Nagi Nourani was born in Khartoum, Sudan. Although Nourani is an accomplished writer in his native language of Arabic, this is his first piece ever to be translated into the English language.