Moans came from upstairs, as trouble in the Middle East was blaring from the television. Desert Storm unfolded itself before our eyes, while an emaciated body lay in my parents’ bed. Our tiny council house was filled to the brink with relatives, waiting, waiting for mommy to die. But I didn’t know that yet. I was just the four-year-old, building tents with pillows, telling people that mommy makes funny noises at night.
Across our building was a patch of grass encapsulated by a low brick wall. The kids from the estate would play football between crushed beer cans, discarded advertisement leaflets and trampled cigarette buds, or walk upon the crumbling wall and fight each other until one of them would fall down. And one of them would always fall down. I would glance over from Bush’s speech as I heard them yell outside. Or stand at the window in my parents’ room and watch how my sister played with the others down below. I watched them play waiting for mommy to wake up. When she did, I would sit on the bed and play with my toys as her bony hands tried to gather all their strength to play with me. I would perform and tell tales of what was happening out there, beyond the room, beyond our estate, in the real world.
One day the priest came round and all our relatives cramped themselves in the room. They watched as the priest unpacked the salt and oil. My sister and I got to assist by holding the little metal boxes. He made a cross with the oil on mommy’s grey forehead, while Baghdad claimed that an American air strike had caused an oil spill in the Gulf. I remember clearly the excitement of being allowed to sit on my 60-something year old Nana’s lap while the priest performed the ceremony. An intimacy I never had with her before and would never have after. Swinging my legs back and forth while I felt my Nana’s entire body shudder behind me.
It finally happened during the night, while it had been her baby brother’s turn to sit with her. My dad had slept in the big girl bed with me and left for work in the morning. He had called my aunt, before he headed out, to tell her that she didn’t need to come in for her shift anymore. But she came over anyway. So while the news from the hostages being freed was announced on the BBC, my aunt got us out of bed crouched down in front of us and said that it was over. My sister’s shoulders dropped, but I didn’t understand and said: “But I didn’t hear any gunshots.”
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author bio:
LJ Kessels is a Berlin-based writer, (Q&A) moderator and storyteller. She has a Master’s degree in Philosophy from the University of Amsterdam and works as a Communications and Outreach Manager for SAND, Berlin’s English Literary Journal. You can follow her on twitter @ljkessels.