Samshoblo

TW: death.

I learned of my father’s death on a Sunday morning, while building a Lego pirate ship with my daughter. 

The house felt as sterile as a hospital that morning, sickly white light filtering through the windows, Cecilia’s giggling echoing around the freshly painted walls. We were sprawled on the cool tiled floor, bright Legos scattered all around us. I smiled at my daughter as I read the instructions and she grabbed plastic bricks, clicking them into place with a grin. 

Cici was putting the finishing touches on the hull of the ship when my phone shrieked with a Skype call from my mother, an ocean away in Georgia.

A few minutes later, I was out on the balcony yelling into the phone, my tongue heavy as lead with syllables I hadn’t uttered in so long. “Deda, gesmis?” Mom, can you hear me?

Static on the other line. I tapped on the screen, but the pixelated image of my mother remained. Poor internet connection, Skype helpfully informed me. Why did the internet never work in Georgia?

“Qeti! Gesmis chemi?” Can you hear me, Qeti? Came my mother’s voice, garbled with sobs and static. The microphone feedback knocked me back a step. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t the internet.

“Kho, deda, mesmis. Ra iko?” Yes, Mom, I can hear you. What is it?

More static, and then, a deep breath. “Mamashens insulti daemarta.” Your father had a stroke. Choked sobs. “Gushin mokvda.” He died yesterday. 

Everything turned blue and blurred as if someone had pushed me into the deep end of a pool. “Ra?” What? I was hearing the words, but the meaning was muted.

“Mamasheni mokvda.” Your father died. 

My voice felt like it belonged to someone else when I replied, “Akhlave vikidi… ah…” How do you say ticket? Uhh… oh, right. “Akhlave vikidi bilets.” I’ll buy a plane ticket right away. 

When I hung up and glanced at my pale hands, the volume button of my phone was imprinted on my palm.

*****

I always held my father’s hand as tight as a vice. From the moment I was born, we were inseparable, I his shadow, and he the light that cast it. 

The best part of my day was when he’d come home from his work as the raikom secretary, usually with a small trinket for me. A button, a daisy, a spare coin. They were all treasures to me.

After dinner, when the fire was crackling in the stove, our bellies were full, and the dishes had been cleared away, my father would puff on a hand-rolled cigarette and tell me in his deep, raspy voice of childhood hunting trips, or of the vineyards he’d inspected for work.

But one of my most vivid memories with my father was a funeral for one of our neighbors. I remember the lacquer of the coffin glimmering in the noon sun as the men lowered it into the ground. I must have been four or five at the time, so I didn’t know that people left and never came back and got sealed up in wooden boxes. I didn’t know what Heaven was.  

So, I tugged on my father’s hand and whispered, “Father, where is that man going?”

“Samotkheshi,”  he murmured back. To Heaven. 

The family members began dropping fistfuls of earth into the grave. I pulled on Father’s hand again. “Are you going to go to heaven?”

“Yes. But after a very long time.”

“Father, I want to be with you.”

He chuckled, stooped, and ran a hand down my braid. “Nu dardob, mamusio, don’t worry, my dear. We’ll always be together.”

At the time, those words comforted me. But I grew older, and I realized there would inevitably come a time when I would walk the Earth without my father beside me. There would come a time when Father wouldn't come home from work and roll a new cigarette and hand me a trinket. There would come a time when his voice wouldn’t fill the void of night, and his stories wouldn't be there to guide me. 

Whenever I thought of this, I would freeze in fear, breaths hitched. Because he was my light and I was his shadow, and there’s no shadow without light. So I held his hand as tight as a vice, so that death could never wrench him away from me. 

Now I would never hold it again.

*****

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Cici asked when I stepped back inside. 

Everything. “Nothing.”

“Can we keep building, Mommy?”

“Building?” I took a step forward and cried out as my foot landed on a Lego block. Pain splintered through my heel. Cici’s eyes widened as I crashed to the floor, right on top of her Legos. 

“No, my ship! Mommy, you broke it!” 

Wincing and rubbing my shoulder, I crawled over to my daughter and wrapped my arms around her. “Araushavs, sakvarelo, kvelapers gavastsorebt…” It’s okay, dear, we’ll fix everything…

“I don’t understand!” Cici sobbed and dashed away to her room.

Tears sprang to my eyes as I pushed off the floor and rubbed my foot. I glanced at the pirate ship and realized I’d broken the hull off. More Legos had joined the scattered pile on the floor and the instruction booklet was crumpled under my hip. 

Later, Cici rebuilt her ship. But there were no hands helping me click the Lego bricks of myself together. No instructions explaining how to deal with the death of my father. 

*****

Two days later, I was dragging my one haphazardly packed suitcase onto a plane. The world felt fuzzy as if everything was wreathed in fog. And every so often, a burst of clarity and a pang in my heart as I remembered my father was dead. 

Finally, I arrived at the Shota Rustaveli International Airport in Tbilisi. While the “Georgian Citizens” counter for passport control was virtually empty, a huge line was already snaking through the “All Other Nationalities” section. My suitcase thumped behind me as I joined the line of foreigners. I stopped being a Georgian citizen years ago. 

“Gamarjoba,” I greeted the customs officer when I finally got to the counter. He gave me a quizzical look as he examined my passport, likely wondering why it was blue instead of red, American instead of Georgian. Nevertheless, he stamped it, slid it under the partition, and welcomed me back to Saqartvelo. Georgia. 

Barely standing, I stepped through the glass doors into the chaotic waiting area. People stood on their tiptoes, trying to find relatives. Taxi drivers held sheets of paper with their clients' names on them. The sound of angry clamoring and tearful reunions rang through the air. Incapable of smiling at the familiarity of the scene, I scanned the area, eventually spotting Dato elbowing his way through the throng. 

“Daberebulkhar, dao!” my younger brother exclaimed, pulling me into a rib-crushing hug. You’ve gotten old, sister! 

“Shents.” You too. From afar, Dato’s grin looked genuine. I saw the fissures in it though. Saw the flecks of gray in his jet-black hair and crinkles around his chestnut eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Dato started to pull away, but I hugged him tighter. “I missed you a lot.”

His cracked smile crumbled. “Me too.”

Dawn was breaking as we pulled out of the overflowing parking lot in Dato’s beat-up BMW. After honking repeatedly at another driver who’d swerved in front of him, Dato began jabbering about recent on-goings. 

I tried to oh and ah in all the right places, but it was hard to pay attention when I was stuffing myself into a black dress. He fell quiet, and I fell asleep, dozing through the entire three-hour car ride up and down the mountain to Kvareli, the village where I grew up. 

Dato woke me up in time to see the sign at the entrance to our town flash by, proclaiming ‘ყვარელი’ in chipped black paint. I sat up and watched the streets fly by through the car window, marveling at how everything, and simultaneously nothing, had changed. People were still selling fresh produce at the outdoor market. The red bike path was still cracked and faded. The downtown playground was as dilapidated as ever. Birshavikebi, or unemployed street loiterers, were still smoking Marlboros and cracking sunflower seeds as they squatted near the village springs. 

But bread was 90 tetri instead of 70. A bunch of Spar mini-markets had popped up all over town. Ukrainian flags hung from balconies. The hotel near Ilia’s Lake was closed. Kvareli had moved on without me, and I felt like an old souvenir that didn’t match the decor of a newly renovated home.

For a minute, I forgot my reason for coming here. But not for long. 

The car rattled as Dato turned onto our street, full of potholes and vehicles belonging to those paying their respects. I took a deep draught of air. 

“Somebody, open the door!” Dato yelled out the window. The rusted silver gate creaked open a second later, and we trundled into the yard. 

My eyes misted over as it all came into view, and suddenly I was crying. Crying at the clucking chickens bobbing their heads and the grape vines curling around the balcony railings. Crying at the plump pears hanging from laden branches and the statue of Ilia Chavchavadze off in the distance, looking down over Kvareli. 

I wiped the salty residue off my face, the blast of hot, arid air almost painful when I opened the car door. It was only September, but like oily fingerprints on a Polaroid picture, the vestiges of summer remained. 

I barely had time to register the group of men standing in the yard when I saw a ghost: my mother, descending the stairs that connected our two-story house. Like water, each of her steps was fluid, but I knew from the emptiness of her expression that she felt anything but. 

Slamming the car door behind me, I ran over and threw my arms around her, tears filling my eyes anew. 

“Deda!” I cried, clutching the scratchy fabric of her shapeless black dress. 

“Shh, not here.” She guided me up the steps, away from the mourning men below, and into her bedroom, which still smelled like musty books and rosewater. With a pang, I realized it was her bedroom now, not her and my father’s room.  

Cupping my face in her withered white hands, my mother said, “If only your father could see how beautiful you’ve become.” 

“I think you mistakenly said beautiful instead of old,” I replied with a hollow laugh.

She just shook her head and sat me down in front of the vanity. As Mother wrapped a black headscarf over my hair, my eyes found the tin box sitting beside the mirror. My box of trinkets. 

With shaking hands, I lifted the lid and stared at all the little gems my father had given me over the years. Dusty buttons, rusted coins, dried daises. Markers of a life long left behind. 

Mother took my hand–it’s time–and I turned away from the painful mementos. 

We plodded down the steps, past the group of male mourners, and into the living room. 

When someone dies in Georgia, the bereaved family holds a panashvidi. Today was the last day of my father’s panashvidi, since it had been five days since his death. 

My grip on Mother’s wrist hardened as I saw my father’s open casket on its stand, centered diagonally in the dim room so that he would face east, awaiting Jesus Christ. I took in his crossed hands, the wooden cross around his neck, and the icon of Saint Giorgi, his namesake. Took in the thick candle by his head, illuminating the bowls of salt, oil, wine, and wheat. 

I finally worked up the courage to focus on my father’s face. Shut eyes accentuating his crow’s feet, a mouth pressed into a hint of a smile, and deep lines chiseled by laughter: that was all that was left of my father’s vibrant countenance. 

Drowning, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, deep breaths, deep breaths…

Mother squeezed my shoulder and pushed me forward onto a bench at the edge of the room with the other female chirisuplebi, mourners. She then took her place at the door, accepting condolences from the slow trickle of visitors. 

Around me, the women were singing a lament song. My aunt Nino sang the words while other relatives formed the song’s base, the sound echoing in the room like a long wail. I leaned against the wall in silence, the words and notes a mystery to me. 

The longer I listened, the more the song began to sound like a scream.

*****

The rest of the panashvidi and burial the next day were a blur. After the last mound of dirt had arced through the air and landed on my father’s grave, everyone climbed into cars and minivans to head to the qelekhi, a feast honoring the deceased. 

We filed into the banquet hall upon arrival and began filling the four long tables that lined the room. My head spun at the number of people in the hall; there had to be at least three hundred. Once everyone had taken their seat, the food was served, and the tamada began making toasts celebrating Father’s life. 

Aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends shouted at me across the table as they reached for more helpings of khashlama and wine. 

“So, Qeti, how is life in America?” 

“How is your husband?” 

“You know, my sister’s friend’s cousin recently moved to America, you might know him…”

“Hey, could you help me with my green card application?” 

Picking at the khachapuri in front of me, I tried to respond without wincing at my stilted Georgian. I’d sunk like a rock, the conversation flowing over me like a river rapid. 

The day became darker, and the guests became tipsier. With slurred words, one of my father’s friends was strumming a chonguri and humming a love song. I was staring at the cracked plaster of the ceiling when my mother tapped me on the shoulder. 

“How long will you be here?” 

“Ravi,” I sighed. I don’t know. 

For a moment, Mother observed the drunken chonguri player. Then she grabbed my hand under the table. “Stay here awhile. Bring Cecilia. I haven’t even met her.” 

Shaking my head, I bit out, “I haven’t lived here in years. Cecilia doesn’t even know Georgian.” 

“It doesn’t matter. Your place is here,” she put her hand over my sternum. “This is your samshoblo, your home country.” It was almost as if she could feel my heart shattering. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

*****

Being in Georgia again was like trying to drive a stick-shift after you’d owned an automatic car for years. Strange at first, but easier after time. I began thinking in meters instead of feet, Lari instead of Dollars. I updated my mind map of Kvareli, and reconnected with old school friends and relatives. 

But every friend and relative was a reminder of who I’d been before I left Georgia. Every old haunt a reminder that my father wasn’t there to see it with me. 

It soon became unbearable, along with my husband’s panicked texts about where Cici’s lunch box was, or how to make spaghetti. 

So, I bought a ticket home. As if a place existed that I could truly call home.

After tearful goodbyes and promises to visit soon, Dato drove me to the airport. It was just me again, dragging my neatly packed suitcase onto a plane. 

In Georgian, there isn’t a word that fully captures the nuances of ‘home.’ There’s sakhli, ‘house,’ but home isn’t necessarily a house. It’s with loved ones. So, I think the closest word to ‘home’ in Georgian is samshoblo, ‘home country’. Maybe that shows that Georgians don’t have individual homes like English speakers. We all share the same home: our country, our samshoblo.

As the plane turned onto the runway, I pressed my face to the window to get one last glimpse of Georgia. Hot tears blurred my vision so that the world was a smear of midnight paint, the gold-silver city lights winking in the inky night like coins in a fountain. But while nebulous blobs danced in my vision, the hazy smoke in my mind disappeared, like fog lifting with the coming of the sun.

My greatest fear had always been the death of my father. I’d faced that now, though. 

Georgia was my samshoblo, my home country. It would never be the same without Father, but I still belonged here. I wish I’d realized that before I’d moved to America and let go of my father’s hand. Before death had claimed my light. 

But I was realizing it now. And maybe that realization was the instruction booklet I needed to begin clicking the Lego bricks of myself together again.