The Country of My Birth
I don’t have many recollections of Egypt, except foggy images of lights pawing at my eyes and pushing me awake the night my grandmother died just before my fourth birthday. Some fragrances, even now, of flowers or exotic spices, sometimes remind me of the country of my birth. Beans and other dishes my mother used to make prompt a memory of an experience I’m sure I had, but when I reach for it, it turns to mist. I recall noises, a man shouting in the street below our balcony selling his wares. I can’t remember his eyes, just his voice. He spoke a language I once understood and still catch the odd sound on my lips or in my throat. From the time I was six I was raised in Canada. I shouldn’t recall Arabic words, but I do. It’s interesting what my memory hoards.