I reach his belongings with trembling hands, constantly under the burden of realization that I might not like it if someone tries intruding into my world of belongings only a few months after my disappearance from the physical world.
There is a relatable fear, a shared feeling of discontent; but there is this contentment surviving its paradox existence, deep in the hollows of my heart I find peace. I reason my heart that it is only to preserve that I am reaching his belongings, that some years down the lane someone out there might also want to preserve what I’ll be leaving behind.
I have multiple emotions at work in my body, I feel dejected as I reach his storage box for how his belongings lay there so naked and at loss of any meanings; and I open it. I detect all the objects one by one, in my futile try to attach any meaning that he left behind in the world for us to grab.
Few of his army souvenirs tucked in one corner of the box, all the invitation letters from his regiment and letters from his colleague and I transcend into afternoons of childhood summer when he would gather us all around and narrate stories of his adventures in the army, his eyes speaking for the pride he felt in his service, his language containing barely any hint of pride.
The memory now takes me back to summer evenings in my village house as a long row of chorpoyes was set in the center of a courtyard lined by verandas all around. Soon after Maghrib prayers he would enter the house, always at a fixed time and his radio in hand. He would set it up on the side table, tune into a news channel and rest his head on his hands.
The echoes of news on the radio still play in my head, my first ever memory of listening to anyone reading out for us in a very serious and somber way and in those fifteen minutes, everything else in the surroundings stopped as if respecting the sobriety of the situation.
Those fifteen minutes later became a part of me and took a broader span in my life years. I stood there to look at the Rome of his belongings that he built over years and from the corner of my watery eyes I can see that the ink is spelled.