Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes
I like it that way. I love to be at home, making a home. I cook, I clean, I wait for the end of the school day.
It was the same then.
I would wait for the end of the school day, for my Cic
He still is.
Christopher was ten; he was keen to be independent, to help. He loved food, the combining of ingredients. He would watch me cook, his questions were intelligent. I would describe food, cuisine, Maltese traditions to him. He would eat up my words, my snippets of language, my customs.
I would tell him about my special place in Malta. I would tell Christopher how I used to go to a café with my mother, after school. I would describe how my mother and I would sit near to the window, how we would talk and look down onto the bay of Mellie
~Maltese flat bread seasoned with salt, with peppers, with tomatoes, with capers, with olives, with olive oil.
His eyes would light, his taste buds tang. I longed for him to savour. He never did.
I gave him words without flavour, without texture.
Sometimes, in life, we put off, we think that there will be a tomorrow.
We are told that we will blossom and then wither.
I guess that I gave my son the skeleton, the remains of a culture. I spoke an outline of a country that he was drawn to, that he needed to understand. I offered him words without images that he could attach to. I lacked commitment; I feared the joining of him to his roots, my roots. I barely spoke with my mother tongue, not until after Christopher’s death, not really.
We lived close to the primary school. Christopher pestered to walk home with a friend. He would have to cross one main road, but they knew where to look, how to look left and then right and then left again. They were sensible boys, I gave in. They had managed the walk home for six, maybe even seven weeks.
School finished at 3.20 p.m.
On 5 February 2002, Christopher’s friend James was ill. His mother had called in the afternoon, just to let me know that Christopher would be making the walk home, alone.
I began to worry.
I decided that I would wait for him, on the home side of the main road; that I would almost pretend to be shocked to see him.
It was a simple plan.
I got to the main road at 3:20 p.m. I stood down slightly, out of sight, almost, as if I had come up from the village and was making my way home. Christopher had not seen me. He was standing at the opposite side of the main road, waiting to cross.
I called his name, shouted out Cic
He looked at me, a huge grin on his face.
And, then, he stepped out onto the main road.
He was killed on impact.
There was nothing that I could do.
But that is not the complete story of our relationship, not really. Christopher knows that my recall lacks context, depth, texture. That is the story that I have formed, developed to convince people to offer sympathy, to empathise. There is a truth, blocked, hidden where only the spirits can see. There was another side to our mother and son relationship.
~six
Malta’s top 5: About Valletta
* 1. The Knights of St John
Valletta is indebted to the Order of the Knights of St John, who originally designed the city as a sanctuary to tend to wounded soldiers during the defence of Malta against the Ottoman Empire in the sixteenth century. Before this, the order was situated in a little watchtower, named St Elmo, the only construction on Mount Sceberras, which lies between two harbours. The valiant conqueror of the Great Siege, Grand Master La Valette, understood that for his order to uphold its grip on Malta they would have to build sufficient fortifications. A plan was devised for the fortified city which was given the name Valletta, in honour of La Valette.
The air steward’s voice is monotone, floating over the bustle of the tourists.
‘Please stay seated until the aircraft is stationary.’
They do not, of course.
within the minute the click.
~cl – ick.
~cl – ick.
~cl – ick – ing.
of metal is heard.
People stand, push into the aisle, pull coats and bags down from the overhead lockers.
The stairs are being attached. The door opens.
I squeeze into the queue in the aisle, clutching my handbag and my shawl to my chest. Christopher follows, pinching in behind me, invading my personal space, again. We do not move.
I am impatient.
I want to be off the plane, I need to be in the open space, breathing in the dust of Malta. I want to scream. I want to tell the tourists to move out of my way.
We begin to move.
We take small steps, we shuffle; I do not let other passengers step in front of me. I avoid eye contact. I ignore the pregnant woman, I ignore the goodbye from the air steward; I walk down the metal steps.
the heels of my boots clip clap.
~cl – ip.
~cl – ap.
~cl – ip.
~cl – ap.
but there is no blast of heat, no warmth from my Lord’s smile, not today.
the heavens are spitting, spatting.
~sp