Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

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      I shiver. It is cold in Malta. I feel cold in my bones, shiver shiver, shiver shiver.

      

      And then, my mother walks in from the kitchen.

      

      She is ahead of me, rubbing her hands over her hair, shaping her black backcombed locks into a ball. She looks young, fresh, alive. She looks my age, mid thirties, I see my shape in her curved figure. Her lips are covered in red lipstick; she is wearing her house clothes, covered with an apron. She has been cooking, I smell, I am hungry.

      

      ‘Nina, qalbi!

ejt lura d-dar, galija!’

      ~Nina, my heart! You came back home for me.

      

      She holds out her arms, wide, and as I move towards her I become enveloped in her scent.

      

      ‘Jien qieg

da d-dar,’ I whisper.

      ~I am home.

      The embrace is broken.

      

      ‘Christopher, where is he?’ I ask.

      

      My eyes search, I panic.

      

      ‘He will be with Geordie, Aunt Elena’s Englishman, don’t worry. Ikunu qed jaqsmu l-birra ma’

esú.’

      ~they will be sharing beer with Jesus.

      

      My mother is smiling.

      

      ‘Cic

io says that Jesus lives in Malta.’

      ‘He does, you’ll meet him.’

      

      My mother says.

      

      ‘Why are there so many dead people here?’ I ask.

      

      ‘All troubled souls come to Malta, qalbi.’

      

      ~my heart.

      

      ‘But why, Mama?’ I ask.

      

      ‘You don’t remember, qalbi? To heal, the good come here to heal.’

      

      My mother says.

      We are in the kitchen.

      

      My mother stands near to her cooker; two plates, a bowl, two forks and a large silver spoon are laid out, ready. I lean my bottom onto one of the wooden chairs; there are six surrounding the kitchen table. In the centre of the table, a glistening crystal bowl contains one single orange.

      

      ‘Cic

io told me that you were coming.’

      She says, spooning out aran

ini.

      ~baked rice balls filled with cheese, meat sauce, peas, rice. The outside is covered in breadcrumbs.

      

      I watch my mother.

      

      I look as the perfect rice balls are transferred from bowl, to spoon, to plate, with ease. It was my favourite dish as a child, my mother has remembered, she has cooked them to welcome, without words. Her rice balls are filled with mozzarella, the taste used to linger, melt. The taste was unique to my mother’s recipe, different, special.

      

      I smile.

      

      I cross my arms over my chest, my hands rubbing to warm the tops of my arms. My mouth is filled with anticipation, juices.

      

      ‘Are you cold, qalbi?’

      

      ~my heart.

      

      ‘I am cold in my bones,’ I say.

      

      ‘You will find warmth, come, eat.’

      

      She hands me a plate and a fork, the aran

ini roll, slightly. I uncross my arms, pull out a wooden chair and place my plate onto the table.

      I think to how Christopher and I would attempt to replicate, to make aran

ini and how frustrated I would become. I used to think that I was cursed, that my inability to perfect aranini was my punishment for breaking my word, my promise. I was naïve. My Lord does not punish people with an inability to make rice balls. My Lord punishes with the death of a child.

      I shiver.

      

      I think of Molly. I have never cooked with Molly. Her daddy has, I cannot.

      

      I shiver.

      

      My mother sits next to me.

      

      ‘You cooked my favourite, thank you.’

      

      I want to talk, to spill, to tell my mother all in the hope that she will help me, that she will make me better. I cannot find the words, not yet. My mother reads my thoughts.

      

      ‘Listen. Eat, relax and then we will talk, but not of our СКАЧАТЬ