Sciences Participating with Arts & Culture in Education

thursday

Illustrated by ROXANNE PROULX

you passed away on a thursday. the last time i had seen you was the thursday prior. you were family. a distant cousin of my father’s, and perhaps mom’s closest friend. that second to last thursday night you stopped me as i was walking out of your apartment. looked me straight in the eye, smiled, and told me how proud you were of me. my heart still breaks everytime i think of those last words you spoke to me. i remember thinking how odd it was, smiling and thinking “well that’s a first” and hugging you.

you had that patronizing way older relatives, close or distant, have of telling the younger ones what they must do with their lives, what to study, what career paths to pursue, to build futures that involve them and other distant family members they’ve never met and a home country they’ve never been to. you were that constant reminder of the expectations set for me. like every child of immigrants grappling with often overbearing elders i usually cast aside your words of counsel; the calculus books you gave me years ago are still collecting dust at the bottom of my book shelf. you wanted me to be a doctor, a nurse, a pharmacist. to go to the continent and build a hospital, a school. expressed disappointment when i chose social sciences but still told me to keep going, to do something with my life that would enable me to provide for my parents when our roles would reverse.

like my father you never failed to remind me that i was dark, muslim, and woman in a world where such characteristics did not represent success, that i had to embrace myself, work twice as hard as anyone and never waver under the pressure to get to where i had to. i will forever cherish the memory of you holding my hand that night and softly telling me that you’ve always been proud of me and loved me dearly. i remember the warmth that spread in me. that night i realized that despite my complaining, despite your overbearingness, i loved you. you were part of me, had seen me grow and were making sure i knew where i was from and where i was headed.

yet i have so many regrets. i wish i understood. wish i had known there would be a time i would feel a lack and only find solace in a home that’s never been completely mine, in a family, a people, whose strength, love, and beauty would inspire me. only when it was too late did i realize what you intended. you wanted me to have a home in my heart, unbelonging to be foreign to me. and that i be whole and strong and able.

almost a year later and i am still grudgingly trying to forgive myself. my past ingratitude disgusts me. and that night i didn’t even want to go all the way down to plamondon, sighed loudly and told mom “i’d rather stay home and study, let dad take those bags to her.” i complained about the fact that you specifically asked for me and my mom to come (she still hasn’t forgiven herself for refusing, on account of being too tired), dragged myself into the car with dad and mumbled half sentences about finals and wasting time. it should’ve been a moment of foreboding. maybe it would’ve hurt less if i'd had a vague impression that things were about to change.

a week later the night's sleep softly wrapped the stillness of permanent rest around you and suddenly we realized you had become part of  an eternal elsewhere. I still can't believe you are gone. you would tell me that I am stronger than this, that grief is only temporary. so I try to slay my nightmares in my sleep. i try not to carry them, or let them make their way into my waking hours, drag my mornings, duplicate and act as dinner guests, filling empty chairs, empty spaces, finding seats on my already somewhat burdened shoulders.

i will carry your legacy of hard work and determination, i will make home of anything and anywhere i identify with. i am a child of a nomadic people; home is anywhere i want it to be.