By Meola Shaka

My Superpower: Third Place

Of course, I remember. The roses were not entirely white. A pale yellow covered the bottom of the petals and blended into that faint eggshell color. They covered the entirety of my grandparents’ backyard, dripping over the fence and falling ever so slightly over the metal door. 

I remember the feel of my grandmother’s touch. The smell of the blue Nivea cream and how her rings squeezed her fingers. They’re much looser on me now. I remember the coarse white hair on my grandpa’s beard that scratched my little cheeks at every kiss. The sound of his watch filled the room every time we went quiet. It stopped working now, but the leather still smells the same.

I remember the first time my grandma taught me how to make Turkish coffee. Measure how much water is in a cup, one spoon of coffee for medium taste, two for strong. Always ask them how much sugar they want. Bring it to a boil and right when it’s about to spill over, pour it into the cup. I’ve never had to make it since, but I could do it with my eyes closed. 

I remember my mother’s face when she was waiting by the stairs of my grandparents’ house. I hadn’t seen her in a couple of days. My mother always wore blue eyeliner, and she never owned anything black in her wardrobe. Even that day, she wore a blue so dark, it could pass for black, and I could still see the marks her eyeliner had left after she had cried it all off. I remember seeing the funeral notice on a pole across the street. I had seen millions of them growing up, and I never paid any of them mind, but that day I did. I wondered how many of them I had passed by, not knowing the pain of recognizing a name on that paper. I then knew.

I remember sitting in the waiting room of the consulate. It was covered by large windows, and the sun warmed the entire room. Families waited anxiously. Some entered the questioning room smiling, some worried. Many left with their eyes fixed on the floor, the look of disappointment washed over their expressions. Some left with a smile of hope. Daydreaming of a life that was awaiting on the other side of the ocean. That’s how we left, too. We got the VISA after 19 years of trying. 

I remember the faint light coming from my parents’ room the day we were leaving. My head was facing the wall, so they couldn’t see that I didn’t sleep all night. My dad was upset at how much my mom was packing, and she was trying to figure out how to pack away our entire lives into four pieces of luggage. My mom came to wake me up, but there was no need. I was ready. I wore my grey leggings and a grey shirt with a rainbow on it. We boarded the plane on July 18, 2017. We left it all behind. I never did.

My memories remained still in space like paintings inside a gallery. These paintings were each named carefully, and beside them, a label described everything in detail. Sometimes they were dated and sometimes not, but always with an author, I, the one who kept these memories alive. I left the door open. I invited people in. 

Do you remember when?

They stood by the door, looking at me with a blank stare. Their faces were painted all over the gallery with no recollection of how they ever got there.

Are you sure you didn’t make this up?

I crawled into the corner of those white walls. I stared at them one by one. Looked for a missing piece here and an added one there. I couldn’t have made any of them up. I locked the door. There was no point in trying to get anyone else to remember. It was enough that I did. 

Everything that once was, everything lost, and everything in between, I carried. I carried it like the shadow that followed me in every corner. Half with the fear that others would forget, half with the fear that I would. The fear that I would move on and stop grieving what once was. Who would I be without the melancholy and nostalgia that haunt every memory of mine? I never tried to forget or tried too hard to remember. But I never did forget anything. Everyone and everything lost lives inside my mind effortlessly, with a force that is alive. 

I am a mosaic of all the people and places that I have once met. I lost it all, and all I could do was remember. My greatest power and my hardest downfall. A museum with no visitors.