Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Amara’s eyes were closed as she listened to the ever-constant sound of the clock.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
She felt herself twiddling her fingers against the light wooden table. She breathed in as she felt the light rays of the sun come across her face. The sensation made her recall her first day at the beach.
Her mother, ever so impulsive, announced one of her many spontaneous road trips; thus, her mother rented the cheapest car they could afford (cheap was the only option) and drove all the way from Portland, Oregon to California. Amara recalled the many times in which they had to pull over, as the car constantly ran into problems. Once, the rear right tire went flat, which unfortunately brought Amara’s mother the challenge of changing a tire for the first time. At 5 years old, Amara was tired; the California sun was too much to bear on an empty stomach, so she began to beg her mother to ask for help. Yet her mother, ever so resilient and stubborn, insisted that, “You can’t get anywhere if you just wait around for someone. You are your own savior.” So after an hour of trying to change the tire, they finally reached the beach.
Once they were at the beach, Amara took in the scene she had only seen from the old VCR movie that her mother had shown for movie night — the bright blazing sun, the sound of the waves crashing against each other, the feeling of the dry coarse sand between her toes and the overwhelming sensation she felt once glancing at the various people around her. “Aren’t you ready to have fun habibti?” her mother asked. Amara looked up and smiled at her mother, yet soon noticed the people behind her mother, gawking at them. One pointed at the clothing wrapped tightly around her mother’s head, others noticed the modest clothing she was wearing at a beach. Her mother followed her glance. “Don’t mind them. You can never let others spoil your day.” Amara always admired her mother’s confidence. Her mother came to the U.S. not too long ago and had Amara at just 18 years old. Her mother went through her own challenges that involved an abusive partner and a family that believed her mother to be too “wild.” So throughout Amara’s life, it had always been just her and her mother. Amara had seen her mother take up many challenges, and sometimes she failed, but her confidence had never wavered.
Her mother glanced at the thin gold watch she wore.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“Come on, habibti. Let’s go.” With that, her mother took her hand and led her onto the bright, blazing beach.
***
“Why is it just you and me?” 13-year-old Amara asked one dreadfully hot summer night. The sound of the old grandfather clock ticked away as the crickets could be heard outside the night air. Her mother worked on the old gown she was sewing, easing the needle in and out each stitch as the torn hole grew smaller and smaller.
“Well you know the answer to that, Amara,” her mother said while carefully pulling the stitches together.
“I know that. I mean why do we still have to be alone?” Amara said exasperatedly, fiddling the loose string of her favorite cotton hijab. “Everyone seems to have so many people in their families. Zainab had her birthday party on Saturday, and her dad had all her aunts, uncles and cousins come. And it’s just her birthday.” She began fiddling with the string too much to the point where the loose strand wrapped around her finger. “It’s almost Eid, and we’re going to be alone just like always,” she grumbled.
“Hmmm.” Her mother’s eyes were still on her work, looking over for any mistakes. “We’re not always alone for Eid. What about the people you talk to when we go to the mosque?” At this point, Amara was frustrated with her mother’s responses along with the summer heat. “You know that’s different,” she grumbled.
Amara’s mother finally glanced up at her. “Is it?” she gently asked with a tearful smile.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The ticking sound of the grandfather clock suddenly seemed to get louder and louder in the quiet night air.
***
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“Habiti, do you know why this watch is so special?” Amara’s mother asked while they sat on the cold and hard blue seats of the hospital lobby. Amara’s head was spinning, but she knew her mother was trying to ease her nerves. Her mother turned her wrist forward. “This watch was your grandmother’s, and her mother’s before her.” Amara glanced at the thin gold watch she’d seen her mother wear countless times. The intricate gold patterns around the face of the watch glimmered around her mother’s thinned wrists. “One day, this will be yours,” her mother proudly declared, as she got up from her seat as the hospital receptionist called her name. Amara’s eyes were still on the watch, and she could see as the tiny little hands ticked forward, almost hearing its daunting sound.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
***
Amara’s mother is strong. She is unbeatable. She is resilient and fearless.
Yet
Amara’s mother is stubborn. She is headstrong. She is proud.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Amara’s mother was proud. She was headstrong. She was stubborn.
Yet
Amara’s mother was fearless. She was resilient. She was unbeatable. She was strong.
***
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Amara felt the sun’s glare as she opened her wet eyes and wiped them clean as she glanced at the thin gold watch warmly wrapped around her wrist. The watch that was gifted to her by her mother for her 20th birthday last month. “You’ve accomplished so much on your own. I know that you’ll be just fine.” Her mother’s eyes glinted with pride as she wrapped her thin hands around Amara’s.
You’ll be just fine. The words echoed through her head. Amara looked around the quiet lobby where she was seated to find that it was near empty. The sounds of gentle keyboards clacking together, hushed low voices and an ever-present clock followed through the air. As she glanced once more at the warm rays of the sun, the footsteps of the hospice nurse approached her.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“Ma’am, are you ready to say goodbye now?” the nurse whispered softly.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Amara looked at the nurse, and her eyes glinted with the same unwavering conviction as her mother’s.
“Yes, I am now.”
Statement Correspondent Dahika Ahmed can be reached at dahika@umich.edu