Caroline Smailes - Like Bees to Honey

~cl – unk.

to the floor.

And then it is gone.

I cannot explain where it has gone; only that it no longer keeps those in, those out.

I walk into my mother’s house, dragging my suitcase over debris. My eyes begin to adjust. I see through the dust and the rubble and the rubbish. The smell hits me, decaying, riddled.

I stop. I begin to hold my breath, to count, in Maltese.

I close my eyes.

Wie ed, tnejn, tlieta, erbg a, amsa.

~one, two, three, four, five.

I open my eyes.

My eyes transform the tumbled ceilings, the broken banisters and within moments I am standing in my mother’s hallway. A grand sweeping staircase is on my right. A wooden coat stand, garnished with elaborate carvings, is to my left. I take off my shawl. I drape it onto the stand, next to my mother’s lace shawl. I release the grip of my suitcase, resting it near to the wall.

I shiver. It is cold in Malta. I feel cold in my bones, shiver shiver, shiver shiver.

And then, my mother walks in from the kitchen.

She is ahead of me, rubbing her hands over her hair, shaping her black backcombed locks into a ball. She looks young, fresh, alive. She looks my age, mid thirties, I see my shape in her curved figure. Her lips are covered in red lipstick; she is wearing her house clothes, covered with an apron. She has been cooking, I smell, I am hungry.

‘Nina, qalbi! ejt lura d-dar, g alija!’

~Nina, my heart! You came back home for me.

She holds out her arms, wide, and as I move towards her I become enveloped in her scent.

‘Jien qieg da d-dar,’ I whisper.

~I am home.

The embrace is broken.

‘Christopher, where is he?’ I ask.

My eyes search, I panic.

‘He will be with Geordie, Aunt Elena’s Englishman, don’t worry. Ikunu qed jaqsmu l-birra ma’ esú.’

~they will be sharing beer with Jesus.

My mother is smiling.

‘Cic io says that Jesus lives in Malta.’

‘He does, you’ll meet him.’

My mother says.

‘Why are there so many dead people here?’ I ask.

‘All troubled souls come to Malta, qalbi.’

~my heart.

‘But why, Mama?’ I ask.

‘You don’t remember, qalbi? To heal, the good come here to heal.’

My mother says.

We are in the kitchen.

My mother stands near to her cooker; two plates, a bowl, two forks and a large silver spoon are laid out, ready. I lean my bottom onto one of the wooden chairs; there are six surrounding the kitchen table. In the centre of the table, a glistening crystal bowl contains one single orange.

‘Cic io told me that you were coming.’

She says, spooning out aran ini.

~baked rice balls filled with cheese, meat sauce, peas, rice. The outside is covered in breadcrumbs.

I watch my mother.

I look as the perfect rice balls are transferred from bowl, to spoon, to plate, with ease. It was my favourite dish as a child, my mother has remembered, she has cooked them to welcome, without words. Her rice balls are filled with mozzarella, the taste used to linger, melt. The taste was unique to my mother’s recipe, different, special.

I smile.

I cross my arms over my chest, my hands rubbing to warm the tops of my arms. My mouth is filled with anticipation, juices.

‘Are you cold, qalbi?’

~my heart.

‘I am cold in my bones,’ I say.

‘You will find warmth, come, eat.’

She hands me a plate and a fork, the aran ini roll, slightly. I uncross my arms, pull out a wooden chair and place my plate onto the table.

I think to how Christopher and I would attempt to replicate, to make aran ini and how frustrated I would become. I used to think that I was cursed, that my inability to perfect aran ini was my punishment for breaking my word, my promise. I was naïve. My Lord does not punish people with an inability to make rice balls. My Lord punishes with the death of a child.

I shiver.

I think of Molly. I have never cooked with Molly. Her daddy has, I cannot.

I shiver.

My mother sits next to me.

‘You cooked my favourite, thank you.’

I want to talk, to spill, to tell my mother all in the hope that she will help me, that she will make me better. I cannot find the words, not yet. My mother reads my thoughts.

‘Listen. Eat, relax and then we will talk, but not of our past, qalbi. You came home, I forgive you, qalbi.’

~my heart.

She says and then brushes her cold hand over mine.

I eat.

And when I have finished my mother peels me the last of the oranges that have fallen from a neighbour’s garden, into her backyard.

‘Listen, I have had too many this year, that neighbour should trim his tree. You remember that I hate waste, qalbi.’

~my heart.

She tells me.

‘But you like oranges so,’ I say.

‘There are many wasted this year. They have been rotting on my floor. Listen, there are too many spiders in the backyard and you know that I have such fear of creepy crawlies, qalbi.’

~my heart.

She tells me.

I think to my mother and remember her screams each time a spider, a cockroach, any insect and sometimes a simple house fly would enter into our home. My mother’s screams would be heard all the way down the slope and from boats within the harbour. I lift the orange segments, smiling.

The orange taste tangs, bitter sweet. I lift my fingers to my nose, I inhale. My fingers are covered in the smell of home.

‘G andek swaba ta’ pjanist.’

~you have the fingers of a pianist.

My mother says and then laughs, ha ha ha.

‘I never had the patience to learn, my feet liked to patter too much,’ I say.

There is a silence, slightly too long.

‘Go into the parlour, qalbi, you look so tired, rest in my chair, use my blanket.’

~my heart.

She speaks softly, clearing the dishes from the table, placing them into the plastic bowl in her sink. My mother has her back to me.

‘Your bedroom is the same as when you left. You will feel safe in there, qalbi. It will help you to remember.’

~my heart.

I move into the parlour, I curl onto the chair.

I turn my knees, my body, so that I fit. I drift into sleep in my mother’s chair, with my mother’s crocheted blanket wrapped around me, warming my cold bones, but still I shiver shiver, shiver shiver.

Matt,

I dreamed of you last night.

I was sitting on the steps outside of the Rotunda of St Marija Assunta. The midday sun was beating down onto my shaven legs. They were itching; I had nipped the skin around my ankle, the itch was forming a scab. I was beginning to heal. I had hitched up my white cotton dress and enveloped the skirt to under my thighs. I had forgotten my sunglasses. My right hand shielded my eyes from the white glow. I was squinting. I was waiting, for you. I will always wait, for you.

In my dream, I tag on to the flowing skirt of a passer-by. She is Maltese. Her skirt is harsh between my fingertips. In my dream, I open my mouth, poised to ask her the time. But the Maltese words will not flow from me. I have forgotten my words. I have forgotten the words that I was born knowing, that are woven through my lives. In my dream the words escape me. They do not grip to my tongue. ‘Sku.zi. Tista’ tg idli x’ in hu?’ (Excuse me. Can you tell me the time?) In my dream I long to speak these words. I long to find words that are beyond me.