My office is overflowing with memorabilia: Disney artwork from Rhode Island Comic Con, a music box from London, and some books I haven't even read. It's funny, the only things people ever compliment are the paintings that were already there when I moved in that I just happened to leave on the top shelf.
I chose the corner desk of the office I share with two other teachers because of all the shelf space, but really, there was only one thing I needed in my office: the photo of Teta and I laughing on the porch, taken after her third stroke. The doctors had said she wouldn't walk anymore, but she had walked to the porch to drink afternoon tea that day. I look at the photo when I'm overwhelmed with classwork or feeling lonely in a new city, or when I'm scared that I'm not smart enough to graduate.
When I remember how hard everything was for her, the refugee camp, the strokes, immigrating to the States, illiteracy, poverty, I feel so frustrated with myself for allowing myself to be overwhelmed with school. School was all Teta ever wanted for me.
When Teta died, I told myself that I would use my career and education to honor her. I found and completed an internship that helped refugees and pre-literate children. I practice mindfulness during Ramadan and donate money for Eid al-Adha. I tutor ESL to newly arrived refugees and wear a necklace of the Palestinian flag.
Today I'm trying to work on a discussion board, sipping diet Dr. Pepper in between each paragraph. I just want to sleep. I don't want to read fifty pages by Tuesday. I don't have any ideas for a creative experiment. I'm so tired.
"Ya binnet!"
I spin the chair around and see Teta in the doorway. Her back isn't bent, she isn't carrying a cane, and she's wearing one of her embroidered dresses. She hasn't dressed like that since the third stroke when she lost the ability to dress herself.
"Hajja! Ish fi?" I jump up to hug her and she smiles. She holds out both arms to me. She couldn't do that with her cane.
"Talli habibti! Egodi hana, sit down." I roll the large leather chair by the door over to my desk and gesture for Teta to sit. I'm so happy to see her, but I feel a pang in my stomach. Whatever vision this is isn’t going to last and I’m torn between living in the moment and letting myself enjoy seeing her again. I have a bad habit of wearing my feelings all over my face, but I'm trying to only wear happiness.
"What are you doing here, Teta? Where did you come from? How did you get here?"
"I wanted to make sure you're studying, habibti." She looks at all the memorabilia on the shelves and smiles when she sees her picture.
"I am, Hajja, Wallah I'm studying."
"What's wrong with your face?"
"Fish ishi, Hajja, kolokher. Kulshi timam, everything is good."
Teta snorts. "When the snow melts, we'll see what's under it."
"What snow are you talking about, Hajja? Wallah I'm studying hard and getting everything done."
"Tayib, habibti, but not everything is good."
"What do you mean, Hajja?"
"You're sad, habibti. Lish? Why are you sad?” She reaches out and holds my chin.
"Anna dari. I don't know, Hajja"
Teta snorts again.
"Lish tethacki? Why are you laughing at me?"
"Be honest with me, habibti. You know why you're sad."
"I love you and I want you to be proud of me. Bes, that's all." I reach out and take her hands.
"Anna bahebki. I love you, too. That's nothing to be sad about."
"I just miss you so much. And I'm not sure I even want my heart to stop hurting and I don't think I want to stop missing you because then the last little part of you I have left will be gone. Even if it's the part that hurts the most. Inti habibit gelbe. You're the love of my heart."
"I'll never stop being a part of your heart, habibti." She gently pats my neck, her most affectionate gesture.
"Wallah?"
"Wallah. Now finish your homework."