Letters to Baby Sarah: Safe!

Hey Kiddo,

I keep walking around distracted-like, back and forth pretty quickly across the apartment, mostly because I don't know what to have for dinner, which is a crock, because I really just keep forgetting that I'm having spaghetti. Ha, pssghetti. Hey, kiddo. And also because my head is full of thoughts. And do you remember the time that you and Dad and Asim were playing marbles in the living room and Dad broke Mum's vase with an over enthused chip of Asim's big green glass crock that reminds me still of old seven-up bottles from back in the times of seven-up being your absolute fave?

Everything was OK though. You're out! You're safe! You're out! You're safe! You're Safe! SAFE! Dad knew one hundred cents how to fix it and you were dollars, all three of you, and Asim felt bad so he told Mum, and she didn't even scream or get mad or mind even a little. Only pretend-like, tease-y with Dad, which made it even more fun.

So there you go, kid. One really truly happy memory, from me to you. Hallelujah!

But the point of the letter, little one, was not to tell that story. That's a bonus. Super-boni! Gratuit! No, the point is to ask you a question.

Do you remember the day you knew you would one day die? I remember lots of little thoughts you had, but I don't remember when you figured out life's big secret. I remember that you were a little bit afraid of sleep, because you figured out that sleep was just about the same as death, minus the wake-up-figure-out-set-yourself-straight part every morning. But that was not so bad, you thought, because you were okay with sleep being a little scary and death being not so scary. You figured there were worse things than death. Like stewing beef. And horror.

I remember you asking Mum when she would die. She took it as kind of funny, but also a great affront. You didn't think it was so bad, on account of death being a part of everything, and really the only given in life. Also, a big part of the question was trying to get at the heart of whether or not you would definitely definitely die, and, if so, when, or could Mum maybe ask God how?

We were standing at the kitchen sink! You learned a lot at the kitchen sink. Like your brother is your best friend. Like burning things with god in them. Like not asking questions of people who are afraid of the answers and maybe a little afraid that you know more than them. And not to ever ever swear.

Ha. I swear like a sailor.

Don't take oaths, and never say never, little kiddo.

Tahir Mamu and Amirah Baji weren't that important, in the long run, in teaching you about death. It taught you lots of other things, but you already knew the facts of death. It taught you about taking things in stages. And about separation, and separation anxiety. And grieving. And that grown-up people don't often know what to say, and will frequently say the wrong thing, like "Take care of your mummy." when you are 8 years old and thinking "Woah. I am just a kid. Who will take care of me?"

I hope that when I have kids I wake up every morning to find them in a different place in our house. And that the sun shines through my curtains warmth-inducing-like, every single morning.

Talk to you soon,

Roo.

Things Seemed Much Better Then

I was just going through a few photos from the last Thanksgiving I spent at home. Everyone looked so healthy. I miss then. I know I wasn't in a great place then, I know that is was right before everything fell apart, but it was a beautiful time. The weekend was unseasonably warm. I remember sunshine flitting through apple trees. Changing leaves and the smell of fall. It was a good weekend.

My father is dying. I am almost certain of it. The doctors told him he had five to ten years to live, and in about two months it will have been eight. He looked much healthier two years ago. Now he looks, more or less, the way he did before the surgery. There's something about it. The look of someone who is content. Someone you love. Someone who is happy and healthy. It is satisfaction. Not for him, but for me. Now he looks grey. He is depressed. He is dying.

My grandmother's birthday either was two days ago, or will be in two days. It's not really her birthday, as she predates things like record-keeping in rural, late-colonial India, but legally, her date of birth is something to the effect of January 27, 1914. She is somewhere around 93. I think her name might be Khadija, but I'm never sure. My grandmother lived with my family for quite a while before I was born. She used to stay in what was once Asim's room and is now a meaningless, unused space with the most comfortable bed in the house. She left when I was 6 months old. I spent a few days with her when I was fourteen. It didn't mean much to me. I don't know if anything means much to her.

Asim and my grandmother used to wrestle.

I am convinced that she will bury us all. Not literally, since she pretty much has nothing to do with us, but I honestly cannot imagine the woman dying. Sometimes I wonder if this might be the case with my father. He wants to die. Really spends his days waiting for that moment to come upon him. But it's fatalism. He lives for death, and so he dies. He doesn't live at all. Just dies. But what if it takes him a long time? Losing him will be hard. Not losing him might be harder.

I am at a loss.

One Shoe On, One Shoe Off.

And waiting to see what happens. Will I pick my shoe up off the floor, or will I let the other one drop? What I really want is for someone to come along and help me put my shoe back on, maybe even pull me up off the table and make me take a few steps. I need help. I need someone to be here. I need someone to ask me the right questions and push me to give the real answers and to be here, with me, when I fall apart.

I keep waiting for something. Waiting for the next little good thing. Waiting for this person to visit or that person to write or for some little task to be accomplished. Thinking it will help. Thinking it will change me. Thinking that the pain is going to go away. It doesn't go anywhere. It's always here. Always. It won't leave. I can't remember what it feels like to be happy. I can't remember what it feels like to not know that I would wake up the next day, or the day after next, feeling like my soul was being torn from an open wound in my chest. How's that for emo? Shit. Why didn't I get this over with when I was a teenager? Not age appropriate at all.

I remember one year... I think it was my seventh birthday, all I wanted was for my dad to be home. I didn't care about a party, or gifts, or cake. All I wanted was for him to spend the entire day with us. Alright, that's a lie... I also wanted him to wear his white dress pants and white and grey plaid shirt so that we would match, and I would possibly feel as happy as I appear to be in that photo taken back when I was four or five, at the Ijaz's during one of those sweet summer barbecues. But hey. I was seven. I didn't understand things like seasonal clothing, or middle-aged men letting themselves go, or the inappropriateness of white pants in most situations.

Or heartbreak. Dad went to the store that day.

I feel like I'm climbing up a mountain of sand that just keeps rising. It's near impossible to get my footing, and every time I sink down to my knees, exhausted and disheartened, I look up to see tonnes. Millions of years of life, bones and shells and god knows what, reduced to dust and piled before me. Impossible to sift through. Impossible to climb over. Waiting for the next warm breeze to come along so it can fall, cascading over itself, rushing to engulf me, warm from the sun, heavy as it buries me.

Some days I can't help but want to give up. Give in to the misery inside me. Sink down, close off, stop struggling against it. It's just. so. tiring.

I feel hopeless. Please help me.