Absence of Her
Missing a place is a strange thing. A siren
call drags me back to the depths every time, through the veins of a sleepy
seaside town. In my dreams, it is the same place I left; same chipped tile by
the front door, same stray cat prowling, same dent where a football was kicked
at the wall. I swipe nostalgia with a brush and paint memories on a cluttered
canvas. What do you do when there is no more space for recollections? When I go
back, I will have to scatter the past like ashes into the ocean. Rediscover the
place I miss and find that it no longer exists. Mourning for past monuments is
an art I have not yet perfected. Then and now. Mutually exclusive. Emptiness
fills my bones. I know the only remedy is feeling saltwater stream past my face
and praying under starlight. I fear I may live with nostalgia for a while yet.
I am 2000 miles away but there is a solar system between us. My mother tongue
is deserting me, I have forgotten what the ground of home feels like beneath
bare feet. Absence knocks on my door and refuses to leave. Baladi, baladi,
baladi. * An amulet to keep the hurt away, my motherland is begging for my
return. Her pleas fall on deaf ears. Missing a place is a strange thing. We are
stuck wishing for yesterday until the sun sinks again.
*Baladi = my homeland/ country (in Arabic)
Maryam Alatmane is a North African writer living in Birmingham, UK. Although she predominantly writes poetry, she also enjoys writing short prose. Her work explores themes of home, loss and childhood, amongst other things. When not filling her art journal with half-formed poems, Maryam can be found in a cosy corner with a good book.