Aymen Muhammed

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Aymenmuhammed.com

smell of memories

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Part 1: Paternal
Awakening to the gentle symphony of birdsong, their melodious greetings weave a delicate tapestry of sound, coaxing me from slumber. The first light of day peeks through the curtains, a soft embrace that slowly lifts the veil of sleep. As my senses awaken, a palette of vibrant greens begins to unfurl, painting the world outside my window. The color green, so alive and vivid, becomes the canvas upon which my day will unfold.
Stepping into the heart of the memories that call out to me, I find myself enveloped in a familiar embrace. A figure stands before me, draped in the flowing elegance of a white Jalabia. It's my grandfather, a pillar of quiet wisdom and gentleness. Seated in a corner, his eyes dance across the pages of a book, each word a world of its own. The silence is companionable, a space where the echoes of his thoughts blend with the rustling leaves outside.

And then there's my grandmother, a culinary sorceress whose spells are woven in the tendrils of aromatic steam. The kitchen becomes an alchemical chamber, and her every movement is a verse in a symphony of flavors. The scents wafting from the pots and pans are a melody that seeps into the very fibers of my being, reminding me that nourishment goes beyond the physical—it's a tapestry woven with love and care.

Part 2 ; Maternal
The notion of the soul, an intangible essence that defies definition, eluded me until the day my maternal grandmother departed from this world. It was in the midst of the grief that I came to understand the intricacies of this concept, realizing that the very essence of the soul had been interwoven with my past experiences, only to be illuminated in the shadow of loss.
Our lives unfolded within the embrace of a grand, expansive house—a dwelling that encapsulated the richness of four intertwined families. Within those walls, we didn't just live; we thrived. The echoes of our collective existence reverberated through the corridors as we grew, played, laughed, and even shed tears together. It was a sanctuary where life's tapestry was woven with the threads of camaraderie and shared experiences.

Amidst the walls that had seen generations come and go, one figure stood as a cornerstone of our lives. My grandfather, a presence that once breathed life into the very walls, had departed in the late 80s. Although I never met him, my mother's impassioned stories painted vivid portraits of his character and wisdom. Through her words, his spirit was kept alive, a testament to the enduring power of memory and storytelling.
Then, the tides of fate swept us into a different chapter. In 2014, an unexpected gust of illness claimed my beloved grandmother. The world turned quieter, the colors muted. Her absence was a void that seemed to echo within the depths of my being. Suddenly, I felt estranged from myself, a sensation as disorienting as it was profound. The world had lost its vibrancy, and I grappled with my identity in the wake of her departure.

Now that time has passed, I feel as if I have been deceived, the fact of death and change seems to be the only constant reality. but, I miss my memories. in other words, I miss home.