Dog Days, 2009

The mattress was thin, just enough to lift me from my grandmother’s living room floor, but it was mine for the night. My cousins were sprawled nearby, shuffling through their card collection, their voices low and competitive. The heat clung to everything — to the cotton of my blue pyjamas, to my damp skin, to the air itself, thick and unmoving like syrup. The fan spun lazily above, doing little more than stirring the warm stillness. My thighs still stung from chafing after the day’s long walk, and the sweat on my back soaked through the fabric, pooling cold against my skin in places.

Dinner had been tomato and beef stew, steaming in the middle of July, as if we needed more heat inside our bodies. I didn’t know where my mother had found tomatoes in the height of summer, or whether tomatoes belonged to any season at all here. Their tang lingered on my tongue as I lay awake.

At night, my mother would carefully tuck a blanket over my baby sister’s belly, worried she might catch a chill even though the room was thick with heat. The baby’s cheeks were flushed and warm, but my mother’s hands hovered anxiously. I’d watch, and when my mother wasn’t looking, I’d gently pull the blanket away, revealing my sister’s relieved face — her small smile barely visible in the dim light, as if she thanked me for the cool air.

The electricity cut at four a.m., right on schedule. The hum of the ceiling fan died instantly, and the air grew heavier, pressing itself into my chest. In the silence, the steady ticking of the mechanical wall clock filled the room, a sound I never noticed until the lights went out. I pushed the sheet away and wandered into the hallway. One of my cousins was lying directly on the bare marble tiles, eyes closed, arms spread out like a starfish, pretending it was enough to cool her down.

But the cat knew better. I found her under the console table, her belly pressed against the stone floor. I crouched, sticking my head into her hiding place. A faint breeze brushed the tip of my nose — maybe from a window nearby, maybe from some magic only she knew. In the next room, my sister lay curled under a blanket, socks on, breathing evenly. Just looking at her made me hotter.

We came here every summer. It was my mother’s time, her stretch of independence, the weeks when she took charge without my father’s shadow. He never joined these trips, burying himself in work instead. She seemed lighter here, even when the heat made her cheeks shine, even when the house was loud with cousins and clattering dishes.

The days had their rituals: slow walks to the corner ice cream shop, the freezer air blasting my face as I pressed it too close to the glass; trips to the tiny grocery store, where my mother’s 25 liras somehow stretched into a mountain of snacks. My favorite was the “kazoza” — a mysterious red soda poured into small plastic bags, the tops gathered and knotted, a straw poked through to drink it. We’d sip as we walked home, the cold sweetness staining our lips. On the way, we’d pass the grumpy neighbor’s house and, in an act of rebellion, drop the bags loudly in front of her gate. She’d come storming out, shouting for us to be quiet, which of course made us laugh harder.

Some nights slipped sideways. I would sit cross-legged on my mattress, Barbies scattered across my lap, making up songs about each of my cousins — little verses about what they were doing, what was happening in the room, the stray details only I seemed to notice. Around me, some cousins would sit in a circle, playing cards; others would stretch out on the floor, trying to sleep. I’d sing and sing and sing, for hours, my voice weaving in and out of the warm darkness. When I paused, they would beg me to keep going. Sometimes, if relatives with babies visited, I would sing for the little ones too, rocking back and forth as their eyes grew heavy. The second my voice stopped, the room would fall into stillness. I couldn’t sing — not really — but in those moments I believed I could. As an adult, I know my voice was never meant for music, but I still sing whenever I can.

Other moments were smaller, almost invisible, yet they stayed. The dust motes floating in the afternoon light through my grandmother’s heavy curtains. The scent of jasmine drifting in from the courtyard, carried by the slightest breeze. The sound of slippers slapping against the floor as someone hurried to answer the phone in the hallway. All of it became part of the season, the long stretch of days when time seemed to melt.

On the last day, my grandmother stood in the kitchen, a row of hollowed zucchini lined neatly in front of her. She worked quietly, her hands steady, pressing the stuffing inside with the back of a spoon. Behind her, the washing machine thudded and churned, loud enough to rattle the tiled floor, but somehow the room still felt peaceful. I lingered in the doorway, certain I wouldn’t be there long enough to taste the dish. I didn’t know why I kept staring, trying to memorize the way her hands moved, but I couldn’t look away.

I thought those summers would repeat themselves forever. But on the last morning of summer 2009, something in me resisted. I wanted to anchor myself to the house — to its chipped walls, its narrow staircase, its curtains. I imagined shackling myself to the railing so we’d miss our flight, imagined leaving fingernail grooves in the plaster as they tried to pull me away.

But I didn’t. I walked out with the others, climbed into the taxi, and pressed my forehead to the window as the streets slid past — streets I thought I’d see again next summer, and the summer after that, until I was grown.

I didn’t know it would be the last time I saw my grandmother, her house, or Syria.