Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

      ‘Listen, when you left I told you naqta’ qalbi.’

      

      ~I cut my heart, I lost hope.

      

      ‘I remember,’ I say.

      

      ‘But you came home to Malta and now again I have hope.’

      

      ‘I have no hope. I’m lost Mama.’

      

      I sob.

      

      ‘No, qalbi, no. There is always hope.’

      

      ~my heart.

      

      ‘I’m here; I’ve abandoned my husband, my daughter. I don’t know what to do next. Please will you help me?’ I ask.

      

      ‘Search the island Nina, find yourself. And then we will talk.’

      

      My mother tells me.

      

      ‘Come with me, guide me, please,’ I say.

      

      ‘I cannot. I will only leave this home one more time.’

      

      ‘I don’t understand,’ I say.

      

      ‘You will.’

      

      She speaks the words softly and then moves to me. My mother places her cold hands onto my shoulders and looks into my eyes, then over my face.

      

      I shiver.

      

      ‘U qalbi.’

      

      ~and my heart.

      

      She says.

      

      ‘Inti g

arwiena ming

ajr lipstick.’

      ~you are naked without lipstick.

      

      She tells me and then pulls me into her scent.

      

      ‘Have you seen your bedroom?’

      

      My mother asks.

      

      ‘Not yet,’ I say, into the material of her house clothes.

      The wooden banister is smooth under my fingers. My great-grandfather had carved it, a wedding present for my grandfather, my mother’s father. My mother and I would polish it every day. It shone, it gleamed, it was proud and glorious. My fingertips tease the surface as I walk the marble steps of my mother’s grand sweeping staircase.

      

      My bedroom door is open, welcoming; the morning light, my Lord’s smile, shines in through the window’s net covering. I stand in the doorway and my eyes flick around the room, as I hold my breath from fear that I will exhale and puff the image away. It all feels so fragile, delicate, temporary.

      

      Everything is as it had once been. My summer clothes hang in the open wardrobe, all pressed and blemish free. My bookcases are crowded with childhood books, Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, with bootleg cassettes bought from Valletta’s Sunday morning market, with frilly favours from family weddings and baptisms, with statues of Cinderella, so many statues of Cinderella. I dare not step into my room. Instead, I look at my walls, at the framed photographs of my cousins, my sisters, my grandparents, of me. And then I look at my bed, my Rosary lies across my pillow, a crucifix is nailed to the wall above; a photograph of my parents is framed, is perched on my bedside cabinet, is making my stomach churn.

      

      I step back, I close my bedroom door, I walk down the marble steps and I drag my suitcase from the wall near to the wooden coat stand and into my mother’s parlour.

      I am dressing, clothes spilling from my open suitcase and onto the floor, next to my mother’s chair.

      

      I hear banging, glass smashing. I run half-dressed, my white cotton dress unbuttoned, into my mother’s kitchen. I am full of fear.

      

      My mother is at the sink, safe, facing the doorway, water is dripping from her hands and to her sandalled feet.

      

      there appears to be a swirling.

      

       ~s – wir.

       ~s – wir.

      whirling see-through ghost swishing around the room. She is grey, rotating the kitchen at top speed.

      

      ‘Mama?’ I shriek.

      

      My mother smiles, calm, then raises her eyebrows, a frown.

      

      ‘It is just Tilly. She is our resent-filled

ares.’

      ~ghost, usually the protector of a house but may become bitter.

      

      My mother says the words in a loud, a stern voice.

      

      ‘Mama, why is she here?’ I ask.

      

      ‘She is healing.’

      

      My mother says.

      

      Tilly stops spinning, flipping on the spot, instead.

      

      ‘You’re a lucky cow.’

      

      She says to me; then she drifts, floats, spins out the kitchen, out through me.

      

      ‘Mama?’ My voice is high pitched.

      

      ‘It is just Tilly. You will get used to her, qalbi.’

      

      ~my heart.

      I return to my mother’s parlour, buttoning my dress with trembling fingers.

      

      Today I wear layers, a white cotton dress, a shawl, a cardigan, to unpeel. I am an onion. I discard my knee-length boots. I find flip-flops next to my mother’s chair, perhaps they once belonged to one of my sisters. My mother has told me that it is hot outside, unexpectedly for February; my mother tells me that my Lord is happy.

      

      I frown.

      

      ‘Will you move your suitcase to your bedroom, qalbi?’

      

      ~my heart.

      

      My mother asks.

      

      ‘Maybe later,’ I say, I lie.

      

      Christopher walks in from the kitchen.

      

      ‘Will you come with me today?’ I ask my son.