Arabian Night

The cigarette smoke curls, seeking shelter in my nose. I fight to push it out with a deep exhale. It dances boldly in front of me, purple and blue. I wave my hand across my face in annoyance. My eyes begin to blink rapidly, they’re painfully dry. Unconsciously, I shift my body weight which has become comfortably numb against the cheap green chair. The taste of nicotine coats the back of my throat which tightens with anxiety. God, please don’t let me have a coughing fit. I look across the table at the men smoking and laughing in front of me. My dry mouth smiles on cue. I flatter them with a look of intense concentration but my thoughts are as empty as egg shells. I am the only woman in this smoke filled room.

With each deep breath I feel increasingly light headed and yet attentive to the minute details of my surroundings. The 6’oclock news is on low in the background. The voice of the reporter feels like David against the Goliath of Arabic being spoken at the table. I feel oddly connected to this female news anchor, straining to seek out her words as they report in a language I understand.  My boyfriend enters the room and takes a seat next to his friends. I look up with a genuine smile. Isn’t it funny the things you do for love?

Monday Morning

My stomach is in knots. It’s 8:10am and my first class starts in 20 minutes. I smile through the stress. My green robe is hot against my skin, reminding me that I should be putting on my jacket by now. I look down at the woman before me, my grandmother, Sarah Melanson. Her frail body sinks into the chair like a wilted flower. A cup of piping hot tea balances on the table beside her.  It is too hot to drink but if it comes out any cooler I know she will complain. I gently clasp her hand in mine and slide the cuff on to take her blood pressure. My gaze is averted to the sapphire blue veins, pulsating up her arm. They remind me of roots pumping life into a very old tree.

She looks up at me with her playful brown eyes. This is the one feature that hasn’t changed or become weakened by age. The cuff tightens and I tell her to hold still. I catch myself by the sound of my own voice, addressing her like a child. Her eyes close in a peaceful state. I steal a glance at the grandfather clock beyond her. Shit, it’s 8:24am.  

I stare at the blood pressure machine. The numbers change before me at a rapid rate, 147, 93, 72, 64 and so on. The anticipation is building as I hear the clock chime, announcing with glee that it is now 8:30am.  I should be sitting in class by now.

“A watched pot never boils,” she says through a smile. I mirror her image with a smile of my own but inside I want to scream. Finally the machine lets out a long sigh and the reading is good. I turn to head downstairs and get ready. Suddenly a voice asks, “Lee, aren’t you going to finish your tea?” I look back at her, sitting there with such wistful longing. A sudden wave of sadness washes over me as I realize how much she wants me to stay.

“Sure Nanny, I don’t have to leave for at least another hour.”