Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

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      ~my heart.

      

      She says and then brushes her cold hand over mine.

      I eat.

      

      And when I have finished my mother peels me the last of the oranges that have fallen from a neighbour’s garden, into her backyard.

      

      ‘Listen, I have had too many this year, that neighbour should trim his tree. You remember that I hate waste, qalbi.’

      

      ~my heart.

      

      She tells me.

      

      ‘But you like oranges so,’ I say.

      

      ‘There are many wasted this year. They have been rotting on my floor. Listen, there are too many spiders in the backyard and you know that I have such fear of creepy crawlies, qalbi.’

      

      ~my heart.

      

      She tells me.

      

      I think to my mother and remember her screams each time a spider, a cockroach, any insect and sometimes a simple house fly would enter into our home. My mother’s screams would be heard all the way down the slope and from boats within the harbour. I lift the orange segments, smiling.

      

      The orange taste tangs, bitter sweet. I lift my fingers to my nose, I inhale. My fingers are covered in the smell of home.

      

      ‘G

andek swaba ta’ pjanist.’

      ~you have the fingers of a pianist.

      

      My mother says and then laughs, ha ha ha.

      

      ‘I never had the patience to learn, my feet liked to patter too much,’ I say.

      

      There is a silence, slightly too long.

      

      ‘Go into the parlour, qalbi, you look so tired, rest in my chair, use my blanket.’

      

      ~my heart.

      

      She speaks softly, clearing the dishes from the table, placing them into the plastic bowl in her sink. My mother has her back to me.

      

      ‘Your bedroom is the same as when you left. You will feel safe in there, qalbi. It will help you to remember.’

      

      ~my heart.

      

      I move into the parlour, I curl onto the chair.

      

      I turn my knees, my body, so that I fit. I drift into sleep in my mother’s chair, with my mother’s crocheted blanket wrapped around me, warming my cold bones, but still I shiver shiver, shiver shiver.

      Matt,

      I dreamed of you last night.

      I was sitting on the steps outside of the Rotunda of St Marija Assunta. The midday sun was beating down onto my shaven legs. They were itching; I had nipped the skin around my ankle, the itch was forming a scab. I was beginning to heal. I had hitched up my white cotton dress and enveloped the skirt to under my thighs. I had forgotten my sunglasses. My right hand shielded my eyes from the white glow. I was squinting. I was waiting, for you. I will always wait, for you.

      In my dream, I tag on to the flowing skirt of a passer-by. She is Maltese. Her skirt is harsh between my fingertips. In my dream, I open my mouth, poised to ask her the time. But the Maltese words will not flow from me. I have forgotten my words. I have forgotten the words that I was born knowing, that are woven through my lives. In my dream the words escape me. They do not grip to my tongue. ‘Sku.zi. Tista’ tg

idli x’in hu?’ (Excuse me. Can you tell me the time?) In my dream I long to speak these words. I long to find words that are beyond me.

      I said that I dreamed of you. I did not tell you that you were not present in my dream. Instead, I was covered with a feeling and that feeling has become you. A covering that is longing.

      You are the tongue that I long for. I ache with lovesickness,

      Nina

       Tmienja

      ~eight

      Malta’s top 5: About Malta

       * 4. Transport

      For those who do not wish to risk hiring a car and driving around Malta, the buses on the island are easily recognised by their bright yellow bodies and orange stripe. They are a cheap and convenient mode of transport, offering a slow but scenic ride. Most journeys begin at the bus terminal in the capital city Valletta.

      I have been back in Malta for one day, I think. It feels longer. Already time has little importance, is being blurred, lost.

      

      I am sitting at my mother’s kitchen table. My mother has opened her cupboards and is balancing on her tiptoes, stretching in, moving around tins, jars, pasta, vegetables, flour. She has her back to me. Her dress has risen to the fold in the back of her knee. I look to see the perfectly formed muscles on her stretched calves. She always loved dancing with my father. My mother talks into the wood of the cupboards, ignoring my responses to her food-related questions.

      

      She wants me to eat more, she wants to prepare something additional, extra, indulgent for me, but I am full to my throat. I refuse, over and over. She does not listen.

      

      My fingers are trailing the rim of the empty crystal fruit bowl.

      

      ‘L-aqwa li

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