Last night she came into my room with 2 cups of tea. Sat down on a chair and just looked at me. I asked her what was wrong. It was 2 AM. The silence and calmness surrounding us put us in a trance. Her eyes absent from mine. Looking at the white wall behind me. Seeing things, I could not see.
Where is home I asked? She answers Galkayoo.
With the gaps in her memory she tells me about the few good stories she does remember.
I am 16 years old she says. The school bell rings. We run to the car. She tells me about how farhiyyo grasps on to her as the car speeds off. Bumps in a road that was easily overcome. The orange sand vibrating its warmth into the wind. The strong smell of rubber mixed with bodies of sweat.
The sun. The pure air. The birds. The greenery. The giggles resonating out of the cheerful smiles. As she closes her eyes she reminisces about the breeze brushing her face placing a blissful kiss.
I am the child of nostalgia, loneliness, and emptiness.
I am the child of sacrifices, hope and love.
I am the child of broken tongue stitched together with silence.
I am the child of an amnesia so violent, that no human body should possess.
In the night I see her soul leave her body,
mentally gone home but physically restrained here.
Last night with her throat aching she called out her mother’s name.
“It’s been 16 years” she says.
“It’s been 16 years” she repeats.
My mother has not been home for 16 years.