Orange and her

I forgot when was the last time we talked to each other. I wonder what kind of conversation we had for the very last time. The only scene that still hang around my mind was the time when I slept on braided-plastic carpet in her living room. Her living room was not that big, but they took out the table and chairs so it felt bigger that I slept alone there, oh maybe not alone, with her. People were busy inside and outside the house, walked back and forth, while I was laying down, some of them sometimes passed around me. The neighbors, I believed were still awake, even when the clock showed it was past eleven p.m. This evening, after I heard the sound of azan Isya, people even got busier.  

My dad looked sad, but he kept moving, he checked the sound system that played Quran recital, people in the kitchen, people who sit in plastic chairs in front of the house. As for my mom, she took me home before coming back here again this evening. It is still here until now, inside my head, the sight of her running and crying hard into her parents’ arms, telling them to not die, while I was not feeling any emotion at all. Maybe I was too young, I was a child. Perhaps I was 8 or 9 at that time. My head was in blank of confusion, but slightly the scene of a lot of people coming by and going occupied my mind. Were they, her friends? Did they love her? I often try to squeeze my mind forcing it to remember more about her, about what was our conversation about, or what did she say to me for the last time? But nothing came out of my mind. In fact, I only remember my younger days with her, never knowing, never predicting, never imagining what can be the last for us. My Grandma, my dad’s mother, passed away that day, perhaps, that was my last memory of her, of me sleeping in her living room, until the next day, the day she got buried. I never see her again after that.

No one ever really told me exactly, the reason why she died. Even, no one really talked about her after she passed away. Once, mom said that she dreamed of her, but just once, until now, no one even talked about her again, nor I ever heard about anyone talking about her. Do people forget about her? Or maybe not. Strangely, these days, I often think about her. About the reason of why she died, about the life that she had when she was here, and most about it, the days that I spent with her.

Such a shame that I even forget how I used to call her, was it ‘mbah’ or ‘mbah uti’, it is either those two. She had her one leg bigger than the other. Now that I’m an adult, I can tell that something must be wrong with her leg, so I asked my dad about it. He was not sure either, people assumed, it was bone cancer. But we were too late to do anything, or maybe we were too poor to do anything. Have I written before, that the living room where I slept in her funeral day, the floor was still in soil. When people built the floor with cement or ceramic, her house was all in soil. That must explain why, why it was hard to save her. But, mbah, was life hard for you back then? I really want to know.

Was it too painful to bear? Was it hard for you? Did your husband treat you well? When you were here, were people nice to you? Did life treat you nicely? Did anyone ever say ‘I love you’ to you? Have I ever said I love you? Did you suffer alone? And more questions for her spin around my head. When no one talk about her again, I want to keep having her in my mind. So, I let the memories, our memories, live with me. Honestly, I am too afraid that I might forget of how she looked like, the shape of her smile, her voice, I always wanted to write about it.

I always loved coming to her place. I lived with my other grandma, so I could only visit her half day. After school, or when I had my days off. She would take good care of me, took me to bath, changed my clothes and give me baby powder so I would smell nice. She would sit in the chair, waiting for me to get done playing with the neighbor. When it was time to eat, she would call me, and often... She would take me to the seller beside her house, she always asked me "What do you want? Orange?" and yes, I always wanted an orange, so she bought me one. I always loved buying and eating oranges with her.

Now that I can buy oranges on my own, you should’ve been here. I want to buy you as much orange as you want. See that when I eat oranges, it always reminds me of you. Please, please, know that even when no one talks about you ever again, I am still here, with our little memories. I am still here, writing small pieces of recollection, for once we ever lived together, you ever held my hands, and we shared good laughs. I wonder whether you’ll remember me, if we meet again someday, such a silly question, but I do really wonder about it. And for last, till that day comes, I’ll keep remembering you. I’ll keep having you in my soul, till we meet again.

 -N