Caroline Smailes - Like Bees to Honey

I must look ridiculous, but in this moment I do not care. I feel different, already, today. I do not know if this is good or if this is bad.

I feel lighter. I feel that I could float, or fly, or hover.

I want to fly.

I leave the protection of the city walls and the buildings that lean inwards, that shelter. I walk out through the City Gate. The sun beats down, bubbling my blood. I sweat.

I am at the bus terminal. The pavement is curved with kiosks in varied sizes, in different colours, each selling drinks, snacks, newspapers, cigarettes, magazines, souvenirs. The kiosks mark a line, a curved line, for where the buses will stop, where people must wait, must buy.

I pick up a bottle of water from the smallest blue kiosk. A little girl stands on an overturned plastic crate, behind the counter. The kiosk smells of stale alcohol, the girl is alone. She looks to be the same age as Molly, small, innocent, unaccompanied. I look around for an adult, for her parent.

‘Fejn hu il- enitur tieg ek?’ I ask.

~where is your parent?

The child does not speak. She holds out her palm, with her almost black eyes drilling into my face. I stare at her palm. There are no lines marking the skin, it is smooth, clean.

I fumble, I place a single euro into her hand. The child does not speak, she does not smile, she does not retract her hand, she does not remove her eyes from my face. I turn, I walk. I feel her stare following me as I flip-flop away, to the bus.

I climb the metal steps, one, two, three, of the first bus that I reach.

The white roof, the yellow paint, the orange stripe, they comfort.

As the bus pulls out onto the road, I look to the kiosk. The child has gone. A bearded man wears a pink sun visor. He tips the pink plastic peak to me and then, inside my head, I hear his gravelly laugh, ha ha ha.

The bus is not busy. I am glad.

I rest the side of my head onto the cool window and I move with the bus. We bounce, we swerve, we dip, we jolt. I press my face, harder, onto the glass. It cools me.

I think, I am invisible.

I close my eyes and I breathe the dust, in and out, in and out.

I listen to the quiet prayers that the bus driver mutters.

He is blessing my soul.

I wonder if he is too late.

The creaky bus is fast.

I watch from the window.

The bus takes me through Birkirkara, slowing to a crawl past the house where my grandmother was born. I look to the balcony, to the room where she entered the world. I see her. She waves.

The bus picks up speed.

The bus hurries past familiar houses, past shops, past families walking the crooked pavements. They are blurred. The buildings vary in size, in purpose; they are known, almost untouched, unaltered during the missed years.

I smile.

The bus stops. Its final destination.

~nine

Malta’s top 5: Churches and Cathedrals

* 5. The Rotunda of St Marija Assunta, Mosta

The magnificent dome is said to be third largest in Europe and was targeted during World War II. While a congregation prayed, a bomb penetrated the dome and fell to the ground, yet no one was harmed. The bomb is displayed within the church.

I walk to the stone steps, those in front of the church of Mosta whose dome dominates the beautiful skyline of my island. The steps are insignificant, lost beneath the mighty church. The Rotunda of St Marija Assunta, Mosta marks the heart, the soul, the essence of the island.

I sit down.

I am on the top step.

my feet are moving.

~p – it – ter.

~p – it – ter.

pattering, restless.

I am looking at my ruby red toenails, at the cracks in the layers, the imperfections. I always do that; I know that Matt would agree. I see negatives in myself, beauty in others. I wish that I had thought to remove the nail varnish, to repaint my toenails and then I laugh, ha ha ha. I had not planned this journey, I had not thought.

My toes are covered in a fine layer of white dust, Maltese dust, the leftovers of lives. A fine layer of white dust has already settled onto the smooth steps; I wonder which fragments of lives, of memories exist beside me, covering me. Some of the remnants will be lost within the white cotton of my dress. I think, I will not wash my dress.

I rub my hands down the cotton material. I turn my palms to look, to see. A fine layer of white dust coats my skin. I smile. The dust should sink into me, become me. I hunch over, leaning forward, my breasts point down towards my lap. I stroke my dusty palms over my calves, the hairs are soft, relaxed. I rarely shave in the winter. I should have thought, I laugh again, ha ha ha. I can see the hairs, dark on pale skin, others will too.

I can no longer pretend to be perfect.

I smile.

I sweep my hair around to my left shoulder, twist it smaller, tighter, twirling down the hair until it pulls at my roots. My hair is thick, too thick, neither straight nor curly, just thick. My hair has character, I am told. As I grip the twist in my hair, my neck is exposed, hoping for a breeze to swirl over. I long for a cool gush of breath, the blowing of my Lord’s breath onto, into my being.

The midday sun is peaking, uncharacteristically hot for February. I wonder if my Lord is happy with me. I wonder if this is another test, endurance of sorts. Sweat trickles from beneath my thick hair, down my neck, slowly, down my spine.

I refuse to move from the step. I stay. I take His torture.

My eyes are searching, for Christopher, for Matt, for Molly.

I am an adult, I remind myself.

I need to gain control, I remind myself.

My right hand attempts to shade my eyes from the burning sun. I am scanning the beeping cars, the hustle, the queues of traffic, the lines of buses. I am searching faces. I am squinting into eyes. I am searching for people who are no longer there, here, not really. I do not want to go into the church, alone.

I wonder if Christopher can hear me.

I shout to him, inside my head.

I shout to Jesus too.

Christopher does not appear.

Jesus does not appear.

The dust is rising, circulating.

I am lost within the moment. My Lord’s emotions are controlling me, His blood is the bubbling sun, the dust is in His swirling breath.

I have no choice.

Life is not full of choices, not in the way that we are taught, that we believe. We are being controlled, guided, influenced. There is no free will.

I grab my shawl; my cardigan is shoved between the straps of my handbag. I snatch my almost empty bottle of water. I stand, push my toes until they rub into the bar of the flip-flops. They are pink flip-flops. I think of Molly. I sweep the shawl round to cover my naked shoulders, a church entry requirement.

I turn, I flip-flop.

~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

~fl – ip.

~fl – op.

up to the Rotunda.

I stop, in the doorway, in the shaded, the cool. I look into the vast, the beautiful space within the church. Rays of sunlight shine down through the dome, into the centre, bringing illumination, bringing focus. I look to the empty wooden chairs that are lined, facing the intricate altar. I think to the congregation.

The Rotunda of St Marija Assunta in Mosta stands tall and proud. It is a church where an incontestable miracle occurred. The ninth of April 1942 is a date etched within Maltese roots. It is a date that has been passed down through generations. The air bombardments of World War II were destroying the island of Malta. My people feared for their lives, yet as a nation they did not wait helplessly for death. The people of Malta pulled together, united in prayer; they trusted in their God.