There’s something about journeys, about airports and departure lounges and long visa queues that fills me with both excitement and crushing depression at the same time. I remember long trips home from my early childhood, of my always calm mother, I sometimes wonder at how she managed to travel with boisterous twins without having a hair out of place. I miss my mother, I miss her more desperately as the years go by, and every time I see a display of maternal affection in the scenes from my everyday life – on the street, in conversations, in movies – I want to break down sobbing. I miss my childhood. On Fridays, when I shop for groceries at my neighborhood supermarket, I see a father with his young daughter (probably 6 or 7 years old), shopping for food, and I instantly wish I was back to that age, arguing with my father about having the privilege to push the shopping trolley, or how I really want Frosties.
This time, traveling back to Jordan via the Emirates had a strange childhood significance to it. Fourteen years ago, I looked back at the skyline and whispered goodbye. It seemed like the right thing to do, even if it was inspired by too many movies and books. This time, as I finally breathed Emirati air in while stepping off the plane, I thanked God for the antiquated airport that let me see the same sky and breathe in the same air again. Strange? Maybe.
One of the things about living in Jordan is that so many of the brands available here are the same ones I grew up with, so even the sight of a Unikai label reminds me of Unikai’s strawberry milk that I drank by the bucket load as a kid. Today, as I multitasked around the house – cooking, cleaning, and washing – and finally relaxing with a book and a cup of coffee, I recalled how my mother would sit down after having finished all the housework on weekends, and get a cup of tea and the phone and chat with her sisters and mother, or sit and talk about random things or give us advice on the future. The latter of which, she did a lot in the months before she died. It isn’t fair, that in nine years the pain has not decreased; it has only grown worse with each passing day. I have no acceptance, no concept of ‘there is some unhidden relevance in this’, nothing but a growing, gnawing sense of loss that is magnified each day.
