Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

      and my shoulders shudder.

      

       ~shud – der.

       ~shud – der.

       ~shud – der.

      beyond control.

      

      I am out of control.

      

      I pull my large shawl tighter around my shoulders. I bring the two ends together, up to my face, again. I bring the smooth material onto my face, until it covers my eyes, my nose, my being.

      

      I breathe into my shawl.

      I wonder if my Lord is laughing at me.

      She wakes me.

      

      ‘Would you like any food or drink?’

      

      I forget; for a moment, I am unsure where I am.

      

      ‘Would you like any food or drink?’ she repeats.

      

      I look at her trolley. I see tiny bottles in a drawer.

      

      ‘Two whiskies, please,’ I say.

      

      ‘Ice?’

      

      ‘No, thank you.’

      

      ‘A mixer?’

      

      ‘No, thank you.’

      

      ‘Anything else?’

      

      I look to Christopher, he is absorbing the film; I wonder if he is reading lips, if I should buy him a headset. He seems to be on another planet, not really with me today, an outline.

      

      ‘Do you want a coke?’ I ask him.

      

      Christopher looks at me then shakes his head.

      

      ‘Nothing else,’ I turn, I tell her.

      

      ‘Sorry?’ She is confused.

      

      ‘Nothing else,’ I repeat, louder, almost a shout. She nods, takes the drinks from the metal drawer; she does not question me any further.

      

      ‘That’ll be five pounds.’ I hand her Matt’s money, as she pulls down the table clipped onto the chair in front and places the drinks before me.

      The whisky burns my throat but at least I feel something.

      I stare out through the oval window, watching, waiting.

      

      I see the sea, the deep blue sea.

      

      The seatbelt sign goes on.

      

      within minutes the click.

      

       ~cl – ick.

       ~cl – ick.

       ~cl – ick – ing.

      of metal is heard.

      

      ‘Cabin crew, ten minutes till landing,’ he says but we all hear.

      

      And then, the plane is descending, rocking, bowing, dipping, shaking, swaying.

      

      And then, I see Malta.

      I see my Malta.

      

      The island looks so tiny. I look through the small oval window. I see white, grey, green, blue. The natural colours dance before my eyes, they swirl and twirl and blend.

      

      And as the plane dips, the colours form into outlines, then buildings, looking as if they have been carved into rock, into a mountain that never was. A labyrinth of underground, on ground, overground secrets have formed and twisted into an island that breathes dust. An island surrounded in, protected by a rich and powerful blue. I know that there is so much more than the tourist eye can see.

      

      Quickly, the plane bows to my country, the honeypot of the Mediterranean.

      

      And then, the wheels hit tarmac.

      Mer

ba.

      ~welcome.

      

      I am home.

       Tlieta

      ~three

      

      Malta’s top 5: About Malta

       * 3. Location

      The Republic of Malta is a small, heavily peopled, island nation. Situated in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, south of Sicily and north of Tunisia, the islands benefit from the sunny Mediterranean climate.

      

      I was born Maltese, in 1971, into a family that had been united through ages, through generations. Malta had first crumbled under the sun, then under siege, bombardment, invasion and yet each time it grew stronger. The dust, the ashes, it all formed into the labyrinths, secret passages that connect, divide, protect. The islanders have resilience, a determination, an acceptance of sorts. It is said that if you have been stripped to nothing, when you mend you alter, your aura changes, your purpose becomes clear.

      

      My mother once told me, ‘In-nies ji

u Malta biex ifiequ.’

      ~people come to Malta to heal.

      I left. I do not know what that means.

      In Malta, my people speak the language Malti.

      

      ~Maltese.

      

      We have a Semitic tongue that developed from the language spoken during Arabic invasion and occupation. Later came French-speaking Normans, the Knights of St John with their Italian and Latin, then British occupation. And so Malti became a combination of all the languages that drove through the island, of all those who came and left. It was born a rich, a breathing tongue, one that voiced our history, our invasions, our identity. When Malta later gained independence, both English and Maltese tongues were offered official status and Malti became the national language of my island, of Malta. It is known that my people can speak with one tongue, with two tongues, some speak with three or even four.

      I was born into the home that was shared by my parents, by my grandparents, by my sisters and by my oldest aunt. It was the way, then. Our family was sealed, a unit that leaked noise, anger, laughter, excitement, wild gesturing with arms and hands.

      

      There were no quiet moments. We liked it that way.

      

      I was the third, the youngest daughter to be honoured upon Joseph and Melita. I was the favoured daughter