small moments, those precious things

“Don’t you remember our childhood?” I tried to say this to her with a smile. She was cross-legged on the floor, back leaning against the faded cream couch. Her eyes darted to me as I said it. As if I’d touched on something I shouldn’t have. As if those memories were too tender. “It was an odd one, that’s for sure. Mixed and messy and full of upheaval. But there were little moments in-between. Sun-filled moments, times when we all felt something good. I’ll remind you of them, if you’d like. You don’t have to say anything. Just listen. Close your eyes.”

Her apartment felt so quiet then. The still of night had settled. That particular sound of silence. Of the neighbors, the neighborhood, the city, having gone to bed for the evening. The sound of people dreaming, tossing, turning. Escaping, briefly, from the seriousness of being awake. 

She blinked her eyes closed. Only now could I see the gray underlines below them, like a smear of concrete dust. She must’ve been so tired. But her face still seemed alert, her head moving gently to the gradations of sound in the room. And so I started speaking. About the good moments we’d shared, in what seemed another era, when the world still sparkled with the idealisms of childhood. Before she’d had it all taken away. 

~

“I’ll start with Sydney,” I said to her as she listened. “Do you remember when we went there? I must’ve been thirteen, you sixteen. You on the verge of driving, with all the secret pleasures that moment brings with it. To range out in a car, down sunset-drenched streets, deserted of people, turning as your whim directs, going to far-flung shops, restaurants, grocery stores, that really were just down the road. I was deeply envious you could do that. Anyway - that was when we went to Sydney. You, me, and Dad. To see a city he’d always been curious about. 

“Is there a greater city on Earth for food, do you think? The cafes there shocked us, placed us in endless misery that we’d eventually have to leave. Their tiny brilliance, their tucked-away charm. Their sudden churning out of gorgeous breakfast plates, laden with fluffy potato cakes, blistered sausages, clementine-yellow eggs. The cappuccinos were something else. Chocolate-dusted and creamy as panna cotta, they left you smitten, glowing, wanting to stay in the city forever. 

“Sixteen is an odd time, I remember thinking then. An odd age for a sister to be. You were new to all things. I could see you, all the time then, flushed with awe, open to everything, soul full from lovely travel, and as burgeoning in beauty as a flower groping for the sun. You were at that strange moment in youth where you were able, effortlessly, to switch between melancholia and joy. You were balancing out, rounding at the edges, grasping for something more permanent to draw close to. A beautiful, confusing time for you.

“We’d go to cafes every day, Dad and us. We’d sit outside in the Sydney winter, perched around wooden tables. Winter there seemed all coffee-perfumed gusts of temperate winds, and dabbles of sunshine warmth that made you wonder whether you needed your sweatshirt at all. We’d get cappuccinos all round, and breakfast plates, too. Soy milk in the cap, large size for the plates.

“We’d muse on fleeting topics of conversation while we waited. We’d be interrupted by some meadowy 20-something setting down our food. We’d cluck and swoon with delight as she wondered whether we had everything we needed. Another round of coffees, I think, Dad would always say. Our conversation would resume, this time graced by tinkling forks on plates, sighs of enjoyment, gurgles of laughter with food in mouth. You’d beam with smiles every time you weren’t speaking. You were flooded, I felt, with the warmth of family. Perhaps for the first time in your life. Your childhood felt proper then, maybe. Sitting in distant countries, surrounded by those most close to you. You seemed to emanate: this is how it’s supposed to be.

“We spent the rest of our time going from one pleasant thing to another. In Sydney, that’s just what you do. A dumpling shop to a plant-filled gallery. A lush green park to a butter-scented bakery. And all the while Dad recounted stories. Of Sydney history, of British prisoners, of untamed landscapes molded into cultured cities.”

~

“I remember the stories,” you said sleepily on the floor. As a dog barked somewhere in the city. And the streetlight illuminated the window blinds a celestial yellow. “He thought he was teaching us so much. He was so kind to us back then. Especially to me. He really cared, during those strange teenage years. But we hardly ever listened to him. How I regret that now. What I’d do to go back, to dote on his every word, to extract every little bit of information in his beautiful brain. Make sure you tell him that next time you see him. That what he said was important to me. I was just too immature to realize.”

“I’ll tell him,” I replied. “Don’t you worry.”

~

“Remember Sunday afternoons while we still lived in England?” I said then. It was the next thing that floated to mind, vivid and fresh as yesterday. “Now this was quite a while ago. You were perhaps ten, and I, six or seven. Those afternoons always seemed interminable. Bursts of brief rain would spatter down our bedroom windows, as we sat quietly, listening to the clatter of cooking from the kitchen downstairs. Perfumes of food would rise up through floor vents, of pork crackling and garlic, of briney chicken broths, uncorked wine, and chocolate tarts in the oven. And all the while we’d sit, chatting softly, bed-springs creaking with every slight movement. 

“Mum would eventually call up the stairs. You could hear her mount the first step, as if that helped push her voice a touch further. ‘Dinner’s ready! Come now! I’ve been slaving away for hours! Come on!’ she’d say, voice shrill, slightly breaking with the strain of yelling. Dad would heave a sigh from the next-door office, and rise slowly, like an animal emerging from hibernation. In his washed-blue jeans he’d peek around the corner, eyes kind and subdued and full of the quiet reliance on family that middle-age brings with it. We’d tiptoe behind him down the stairs, fingers trailing along the chill of bannister, past the gaze of the grandfather clock in the hall, into the streams of sunlight that anointed the kitchen in late afternoon. 

“Do you remember the smells then? How I can’t seem to shake them. I could live twelve more lifetimes, and still remember the smells of Sunday dinner with a certain meticulous detail. As if each one enveloped my brain individually, filing itself away in little cognitive drawers. As if smells are the bulk of memories, the canvas on which they’re painted, the piece of wood from which they’re carved by the carpenter of time. 

“There was the starch smell of Mum’s cooking apron, as she leaned to dollop out steaming hefts of this or that onto calcium-white plates. The smell of a thousand laundry cycles, and a thousand hangings under a hot sun, bleached clean by gracious rays. There was that of Dad’s face, newly scrubbed. He’d always wash it before dinner, in some sort of ritual, established during student days. Weathered and brown his skin seemed, citrus scented and with patches of damp where he’d forgotten to towel. Drifting images of lemon trees would come to my simple mind, then. Drooping low over shady alleys in Mediterranean countries. Branches dry as kindling for fire. Lemons with skin taught and pock-marked, aching to be broken into, liberated, able to release that tingling-sharp perfume to the world. I’d edge my chair closer to him, close my eyes as I caught that smell. Along with blackened chicken from the oven, bonfire smoke on autumn walks, or the lavender perfume that’d linger around Grandma’s neck, I thought it was the best smell in the world.”

~

I hadn’t realized that you’d opened your eyes again now. They were lingering on me as I spoke. Fixed not with intensity or fear - a look I’d come to know well over the past few months - but with splendid curiosity. I had awoken something. That made my heart tremble. Under current circumstances, I’d take all the curiosity I could muster from you. 

“I remember that smell,” you said. “Grandma used to paint with me, on Thursdays after school. Before Mum or Dad picked me up. A beautiful few hours by the kitchen table, which was always draped with a red-checkered cloth. She’d sit by me with a cup of tea, steam mingling with the shafts of light in the kitchen. She’d place her hand, warm and full of the steadiness of many years lived, over mine. She’d guide the paintbrush then. By default, I’d sort of fall into her. Enveloped by her cashmere sweaters, I’d catch that smell. Yes, yes, of course. It was lavender, wasn’t it? But a lavender that had settled into the sinews of wrinkled skin. A lavender of sixty years ago, blooming purple above chipped stone walls, as Paul McCartney’s voice trickled through an open window somewhere, and she walked home from a lover's house.”

It was very late, now. My voice was beginning to slow. Like my words were rolled in treacle before they left my lips. But as I began to slow, she perked up. We had exchanged energies, decided to switch positions. She pushed me forward, encouraging me to tell more. Beckoning me to share another memory. 

“What else do you remember about Grandma?” she asked. “When did she pass, again? Was that last spring, or the winter before? It’s all a blur for me. I was in the hospital the entire time. With tubes through me like extensions of my veins. With tests done as if I was an astronaut.” 

“Yes, it was last spring. While you were in for final treatments.” I was gazing now at the plants around the room. Dotted in every corner, overflowing from brown clay pots. Something to live on after she’s gone. The thought came suddenly to me. That she’ll really be gone soon. That memories are all she has left. I have to give her another. 

~

“Do you remember skiing holidays?” I said. “Those simple, innocent times. Whisked off in the midst of the academic year. Taken early out of school to catch the plane. Dad would show up to collect us. Like a celebrity, combed black hair, long duffle coat, chuckling kindly with the school receptionists. Smelling of grapefruit cologne, he’d smile as he saw us. A pat on the head and we’d be off. With warm goodbyes from the teachers. ‘See you in a week, sweethearts. Enjoy your holidays.’”

~

“I looked forward to them all year. To Dad showing up early. From being excused from classes. To my stomach doing somersaults with anticipation. To being bundled in black taxis, pressed close to Mum or Dad or you. To smelling the pine-fresh air of the mountains. To forget about the moldy cloisters of school classrooms, even if just for a week.” 

~

“And the way Dad would laugh at your every silly joke back then.” I said “Eyes glinting with ocean-wide love. Love for his children, those people closest to him. Love for a brief holiday, where he could forget the stresses of home, of work.”

~

“He would, wouldn’t he. Laugh at every little thing that slipped out of my mouth. It’d fill me with tremendous warmth. It’s hard to describe now. As if he’d condensed down all his parental affection, and gifted it to me.” 

~

“And the way you two would disappear together. Off to the little grocers next to the hotel. Where shoppers would stomp around in ski boots and snow suits. Buying hazelnut chocolate bars and hand warmers. You two would come back with a bounty of goods. Strewn across the table, it was a version of Christmas for us, wasn’t it. Don’t forget these things. Don’t forget how he loved you, how we loved you. How we love you.” 

~

“To go back to a single holiday. To live just one of those again. You have no idea what I’d give. To live just one of those again.” The dark in the living room was complete, now. Even the streetlamps had flickered off. As if they, too, needed some rest. I draped a blanket over her, exchanged delicate smiles, and tiptoed to the guest room.

~

The ceremony aides began to shovel the broken dirt back into place. Smattering onto the porcelain lid like showers of sudden, cold rain. The small party around me were silent. An occasional whisper of wind danced around us. Sometimes, someone sniffed, or cleared a raspy throat. We all watched right until the end. In time that seemingly had stopped. In weather that seemed to fit no place. That seemed to transcend the moment. As they shoveled loose dirt around your black gleaming coffin, I could only think one thing: I hope I gave you enough. Enough to pass peacefully. 

“Do you remember trips to the bakers,” I muttered under my breath, as the grave filled deep with dirt. “With Mum, in the still early afternoon, right as school finished. We were so young then. It felt like the beginning of time. We’d press button noses against chilly glass, gazing in at cupcakes and muffins. Mum would say, ‘well go on then, choose whatever you like. You deserve it, sweethearts. More than anyone else in the world…’”