Rolls Of Memories

Rolls Of Memories

Bunny watched mother wrapping all the ingredients together into a neat roll.

“Mom, teach me how to prepare one.”

It was a request from her, eyes full of eagerness. Her tone was innocent, face masked with fierce determination, as though mastering the art of making shawarma was her greatest ambition. A rite of passage to the world she wanted to belong.

Mother smiled, her hands pausing as she looked down at her young daughter.

“It will take time, Bunny.”

“And I got it.” Bunny replied confidently. Her little fingers tapping the table in anticipation.

A warm, savory aroma danced out of the kitchen, mingling with the soft rustling of the curtains in the afternoon light. I couldn't resist. I inhaled deeply. My nose twitched as i imagined the flavors waiting on the other side of the wall. A wall that held chronicles of the past beautifully in place. A time when laughter had flowed as freely as the sunlight streaming through the windows. Photos that were taken when the springs of joy were still gushing and flooding. Days when mom was all smiles and giggles. When all that filled and reigned our home was unmeasurable happiness. The comfort of her touch on my shoulder as she taught me to fold dumplings by the kitchen sink, I remember, was heavenly. Her hands, strong yet gentle, had shaped so much of what I was. And now, here was Bunny, asking for that same touch, that same memory. They were there, the irreplaceable moments, proudly on the wall.

One of them, actually the biggest among them all, hung at the top of their hierarchical disposition declaring dominance and power. I am staring at the picture of my father— a beacon of strength that held our little family. But after the fatal accident that shredded his body and poached his breath, those tendons of strength sugged hopelessly if not cut. Life took another course. A course so dimly lit and rugged. The overwhelming death, the pressure of bills, little Bunny (who was only five then); all this mom had to deal with. Solely. She was admitted twice at the hospital and on the third visit, it was yet a launch of another battle. The cancer battle. Lately, the house had been quiet— a stillness that hung like a weight, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

The scent of chicken Shawarma made me drool like a starving hyena staring up on a rotting carcass. The secret is in the marinade—it’s what gives the meat its soul. Oh, God, was I really myself? This thing, Shawarma, had given me wings, and I was...