I remember I was at this local camp in my hometown with my twin sister. My Mom and older sister came to see us and they told us they wanted to tell us something after we had our dinner. We hastily ate and made our way back to them to see what their news was. We were sitting in the car and my Mom couldn’t talk. My older sister took a deep breath and told us ‘You guys, Nene passed away’.
I had never had anyone close to me die. I remember I had never felt that sort of pain before. I remember this little girl I had started talking to, whenever she used to see me she used to run into my arms for a hug. She did the same that day and I could not hold back the tears.
I remember going behind this building in camp where toilets/showers were located and not being able to breathe. I looked to the right and there was the moon with a star - it had not gotten dark yet.
That was a very important year for me. That’s when a lot of changes occurred and I’m not sure if it was because of her death that I started becoming more interested in some things that undoubtedly define me now.
She was and still is a hero of mine. She was such a gentle, kind and loving soul. I remember when we used to visit her in Lebanon, she would open the door and kiss us several times on each cheek and make funny noises while she said ‘Abaou! Abaou!’. She used to make lemonade for us in these large plastic cups.
I still remember the way her skin felt. Some parts of her arms were always colder than others.
She would share our excitement teach time she cut off pieces of lettuce for us to feed the turtles on her balcony (my siblings and I all had a turtle we personally named).
She was a talented cook. I remember wondering how she could make such a variety and quantity of food. She used to always sit on the same chair for meals - right from the head of the table.
I won’t forget the stacks of albums with pictures of family members and friends on that table between the piano and sofa. We’d all go through them each summer as if we had never seen them with the same curiosity and interest.
I have a fond memory of the rooms of the house with their high ceilings, paintings, colorful windows, antiques and books. The mattresses of the two beds in one room made sort of ”dent” but I felt that I was being cradled each time I’d sleep there.
The thin orange paper she used to give us when we wanted to draw or write things will always make me smile. One of my first attempts at poetry occurred in her house. I would write sentences that rhymed and would put a title, date and signature on each piece of paper. I would then proceed to go out to the main living room with a proud walk and read what I thought was highly original and non attempted poetry by my precursors.
These are few of the many stories I can think of.
Miss and love you, Nene. I’ll try to make you proud.
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