She dreamt of the tiny apartment with the lone mattress again. Warm morning light poured in from the sole window with no curtains near the blue door, casting shadows at the huge ugly mattress with the worn out beige sheets. And him. Seated at the far end smiling at her.
It was a dream about him again.
The boy who had her heart. The one who made her believe in marriage. In picket fences, nuclear families and trips to the beach. She wondered how it would have been if they ended up together, in his tiny apartment. He was the only boy who made her want to iron his handkerchief. In the dream, she was doing so. She, ironing. Him, watching her do it.
Then he’d say, “you’re my candy and I’m your wrapper,” In that gruff voice as he brushed hair away from her bare shoulders. She would laugh, because it was such a cheesy line. She’d tell him so and he’d laugh with her.
Then she’d say “You have me now. You don’t have to try those lines on me anymore.” blushing before she says, “and I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means I want to cocoon you with me forever. Keep you safe. Just for myself. Away from the world. Like this.”
He would then wrap his arms around her, and they’d fall back on the mattress, laughing.
She dreamt how lovely it would have been to be with him. How she would constantly intertwine her fingers with his, and he would let her. She would nuzzle his neck in the car on their way back home, never tiring of his sweet smell. Her very own gentleman who would hold doors for her, and kiss her forehead. He would never complain about the awful food she made the way she complained about him not wanting to fix the fan noises. She’d then get mad and stop speaking to him. But then at night in the darkness when they’re backs were turned from each other, both deprived of cuddles, he would turn and whisper in her ear, “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll fix it tomorrow. Can you please talk to me now?”
On the days she’d make inedible food, he would grab his wallet and her hand, and they’d go to the food stall down the street. But he would never complain about it. Instead he’d buy them his favorite tamarind candy, and they would dance in the streets on their way back home. Laughter echoing through the alleyways, in the silence of the night.
When she’d get pregnant, she wouldn’t care about the piercing back pains she got every morning from the warped mattress, or about the walls that were filled with mold. Her heart wouldn’t be. Her heart would be filled with warmth, and hope. And him. Because he would fill empty jam jars with tamarind candy wrappers and keep them on the kitchen sink.
When she would ask him about it, he would say, “One day, if we ever get a daughter, I’m going to show her how many times her yumma had to mess up to become a good cook.”
And one day the tiny apartment would have an addition to the lone mattress. A tiny crib beside it. And there he’d be, cradling their daughter in his arms. Smiling at her.
Amina woke up then with a gasp.
The tiny apartment had disappeared. In its place was a huge bedroom with large windows. The morning light shone through the lone four poster bed that held the ugly mattress.
She sat up and wiped the tears. Her wrinkled hands now caress the space beside her, empty. The same hands that once touched the boy of her dreams. Her husband. The boy who gave her the most wonderful memories of her youth, that each day, even after years of his passing, she still woke up gasping for moments long gone. Left in their place, fallen tears, and memories that could only be traced back in time. The boy who once occupied the space beside her. Now forever remains a dream, a fleeting moment, a fallen leaf. But she believed the dreams were his way of communicating with her. Keeping his promise and letting her know he’s protecting her in spirit.
She walked to the kitchen and looked at the shelf filled with candy wrapper jars, crinkled with time. Her daughter walked in then. She looked just like him. And Amina remembered the way his face looked when she told him she wanted to name her Majda. An alteration of his name, Majid.
“What are you reminiscing about yumma?” Majda asked, and then also looked at the jars. Shaking her head she said, “I can’t believe you’ve still kept these. And I can’t believe the tries it took for you to become the great cook you are now. Everyone loves your food.”
Amina laughed and hugged her daughter tightly. Her Majda, from her Majid. He would’ve been so proud of the woman she grew up to be. Their daughter, who was soon going to leave her too. To set up her own home, and start her own family. She had found her very own candy wrapper.
“What time is Adnan and his family coming?” Amina asked.
“He hasn’t given me the time yet, but I think in the evening before maghrib.” Majda then held her moms hands and kissed her forehead. She knew her mother had been crying again. Like every other morning. “Yours and Baba’s love story gives me hope. I pray that Adnan and I get to have even a fraction of what you both had.”
Amina smiled and stroked her daughter’s cheek, “Just remember to always give it more than a thousand candy-wrapper tries before giving up.”
Farha Mukhashin 