by Sandra Carlson Khalil

When I think of her, I think of figs in Baalbek, growing in the shade of ancient ruins, her hand extended, two fruits inside. What do these look like, she asked, cradling the figs suggestively, a smile playing on the corners of her mouth. I blushed, not wanting to say, Antoine—her son, my husband—walking just a stone’s throw away. Then she took a bite of one, juice rolling down her chin and blurted—des testicules!—laughing, no, cackling, as if the joke was all on me.

Or the time in the car I had the hiccups, and she reached over, so close I could smell mint on her breath from her morning tea and placed her hand on my shoulder and kept it there, telling me not to worry, that Jesus Christ himself had cured me. I kept driving, eyes ahead, her hand hot, growing sticky against my skin, hoping for a hiccup, hoping to prove her wrong.
How do you tell someone the obvious, that you have your own mother?

Years later, when Leila was just a newborn, bouncing her round Café des Cèdres while she wailed, inconsolable, rearranging her body from the top of my shoulder to Antoine’s, to the crook of my arm, back to his, she pushed her chair from the table so hard the other guests looked up. Donne-la-moi! Give her to me! she hissed, and I did, and Leila, she stopped crying in her grandmother’s arms.

How do you tell someone that you wish it was not she, but your own mother, who did all these things—pressing her hand against your skin or quieting your girl?
I wish that was the crux of it, but there’s more.

This Christmas, stringing popcorn for the tree, fueled only by a distant memory of doing it as a child. Leila held out a piece of popcorn, giggling, saying don’t they just all look like tiny octopuses? In her hand, its fluffy tentacle lifted, waving, as if to say this—this—is exactly what she will remember. Later, when I called my mother, she said good evening and I said good morning, because she is always ten hours behind. When I asked, she told me that we never strung popcorn. That it’s a finicky project, too much time. Too much mess.

Sandra Carlson Khalil grew up in Minnesota, but has called the Middle East her home for over a decade. Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in The Forge, Flash Frog, and SmokeLong Quarterly, where she was a finalist for the SmokeLong Quarterly Award for Flash Fiction 2024. You can find her work at sandracarlsonkhalil.com.