El-Ginina
Farida Shams
I was sitting on the grass, balancing a pink lunchbox on my lap. It was decorated in princess stickers. It was the start of year three, I was a month shy of turning nine, and it was the first time we met.
I was new to the school; I hadn’t introduced myself to anyone yet, feeling like an outsider with too many possibilities and little gallantry to speak to people. Instead, he came up to me that day, sat down beside me, and gave me a smile that was both hesitant and welcoming. His sun-kissed brunette hair was shorter at that time, pieces of it curling behind his ears. I remember thinking his hair was coiled similar to mine, though my coils were a few shades darker and a lot longer, tied back with a black ribbon.
I recognised him from class. My eyes were drawn to him, watching him throw his head back and laugh made me want to inch closer, to get to know him better. When I was new to the class that had established friendship dynamics, I thought I would feel left out. I wanted in on the inside jokes, the banter they had, to laugh alongside them.
He never made me feel excluded. Day by day he’d tell me a new joke until I had a lexicon full of them, and I wouldn’t have to scour my brain for what the pun meant. He made joining his circle of friends easier.
That day, he shared a bag of biscuits with me when he saw I hadn’t cracked my lunchbox open. He handed a chocolate covered biscuit to me, and told me his name. I took the treat from him and told him mine. The sun was shining down on us, the Cairo heat unbearable, with a hint of dry wind that made your clothes stick to your skin. The grass beneath us was hot to the touch, the blades pricking our hands and printing constellations. It didn’t bother me; I was too focused on the boy sharing biscuits with a girl he just met.
We were comfortable in silence. He handed me another biscuit once I had finished the one in my hand. Soon, the wrapper was empty. We had crumbs on our laps, and he was smiling at me again, a single dimple poking his right cheek. He got up, brushed the crumbs off his lap, waved at me, and ran to his friends. I touched the smile that played on my lips, thinking to myself the new school year wouldn’t be so bad.
The grass field was in a secluded part of the school, we called it el-ginina, which translates to ‘the garden’. Throughout the years, that garden was our safe haven. A picturesque daisy filled space that smelled of spring and petrichor, of passion and anguish, surrounded by blue benches that were uncomfortable to sit on. The garden acted as a barrier between us and the outside world. We acted as if our exchanged words only existed inside our makeshift walls.
The garden was privy to the secret moments that made us close: me telling him about my issues with my father, him telling me how his own father wasn’t in his life as much. We spent so much time together I started recognising the smallest things about him and engraving them to memory. I memorised the way he spoke, the way he moved his fingers, as if I could almost mimic his next move. I noticed how he avoided eye contact when he was being vulnerable, how he would move around the subject at hand until the person would be the one to bring it up first.
☘︎ ☘︎ ☘︎
The first time he told me he loved me, I was sitting in the garden with my friends, and I was ten.
His shadow dances in front of me, and tells me he wants to speak to me alone. He sits down cross-legged facing me, so close that nothing may fit between us.
His hands are in his lap clasped together, twirling his thumbs one over the other—a habit he never let go of— looking everywhere but at me. I pick at the flowers that start to bloom, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t speak, instead he hands me an object that feels cold against my skin.
It was a key chain of the Eiffel tower. It was rusted gold, almost copper but not quite, with a charm attached to it that spelled out Paris.
I was confused more than I was elated. He never gave me presents; he wasn’t the type to. He was reserved more than anything, not familiar with expressing his emotions.
Him bringing me a miniature Eiffel tower was his way of telling me he loved me without having to say the words.
☘︎ ☘︎ ☘︎
He flickered in and out of my life like a broken television; coming in at full picture when it suited his needs and fading out when it was too much. We didn’t always get along. Sometimes we fought. Sometimes I cried because he said hurtful words to me. Sometimes he would stop talking to me because I said hurtful words back.
But there was an invisible string pulling us back, not wanting us to let go of each other. And no matter what it was, somehow, we always found our way back to one another, however long that took. And the garden, with all its flowers and warm prickly blades, would welcome us home once we were ready.
We had our first fight a long way from the garden, as if our subconsciouses couldn’t bear to taint a scenic place that meant so much to the both of us.
☘︎ ☘︎ ☘︎
My mind has blocked out some of the more intense fights, wanting to remember the beautiful parts about him. But I do remember a fight that at the time seemed to be a colossal issue, when it wasn’t. My ten-year-old self dramatised it beyond reason. Though, it was almost impossible to forget how it made me feel. I was confused because the argument was unwarranted, and embarrassed because he chose to argue in front of our friends.
The brain blocks out memories that you don’t want to remember, or memories that are too painful, that is its way of protecting you. The memory of the fight hides like a shadow, and he was the one person that could resurface these memories if he wanted to.
I don’t remember, he said when I asked him about it.
But I remember everything.
Year seven was the catalyst for everything that came after.
☘︎ ☘︎ ☘︎
The year started out the same as every year before, but we teetered on the line of friendship and something more, never outright saying what we were. We went to the garden, but there was a new girl that came to school, and I was pushed to the side. I didn’t understand how he found it so easy. So easy to forget about me the moment the girl stepped foot in school. I was almost expecting him to introduce her to our place, and the garden would open its leaves for her.
He started to ignore me in-between classes. No longer exchanging pleasantries, spending his time with her. Seeing him laugh whilst walking her to class was enough to make me want to cut off contact with him.
I learned not to expect anything from him.
But sometimes, he would prove me wrong.
I remember a specific week where he was travelling and I didn’t know he was back yet.
I’m facing and rummaging through my locker; my friends are nearby; they talk one over the other. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around—it’s him. Him with the dimpled smile, the unruly curly hair, and the hands behind his back.
He tells me he has something for me.
He moves his hands in front of him, holding a box wrapped in lime green paper that feels soft against my skin. My hands feel sticky from holding the box for too long, my heart beating loud in my ears.
What does he want to say this time?
I unwrap the box, crumbling the paper in a fist and placing it in his waiting hands. I open the box. Inside it is a gold Chanel perfume bottle. I look at him wide eyed, and I find myself grinning, my dimples matching his.
I didn’t stop talking about that perfume for weeks. I refused everyone’s touch or whiff of it— it was reserved for just him and me. I didn’t want anyone infiltrating the space I had created for us, a space that smelled like jasmine and vanilla and of him.
A quarter of that perfume is left, and I hesitate to reach for it, feeling that if I use the last of it, he’ll be gone forever. The bottle is tucked away inside a drawer with the lid secure, trapping the fragrance and all the memories it comes with inside. Smelling it now transports me back to a time I wish I could live in again and don’t want to remember all together.
I brought up that memory to him, about how it’s one of my fondest of him, and that I kept the perfume bottle all this time.
Again.
I don’t remember.
In recent years, I’ve asked him about moments between us, and I realise my cherished memories meant more to me than it did him. I can remember every detail, every shiver. I can almost taste the air, how it’s thick with memories that he claims he doesn’t remember.
The last time I saw him was December 20th of last year.
I hadn’t seen him in two years. It was like seeing his younger self sitting cross-legged in the garden, running his hands over the blistering pointed blades of the grass with a childlike smile playing at his lips. He looked older than I last remember him. His hair was still coiled as ever, but now tamed and neat. The coils looked similar to mine, though mine was many shades lighter, and hung loose down my back. He had grown, gaining a couple of inches on me. His dimpled smile gave me a sense of comfort, as it was the one thing unchanged about him.
He was different with me, though: curter and uncomfortable. I noticed his hands clasped together as he twirled his thumbs, one over the another. I presumed it was because we hadn’t seen each other in so long, but now I realise it was some sort of goodbye.
He holds me close. I can feel every nerve in my body, every brush of his breath against my cheeks, feeling the warmness of his hands through my clothes.
He tells me it is good to see me, and not a second later he tells me it is never going to work out, and no matter how much we try, it is never going to last.
We’re better off where we are now; at a distance, me in one country and him in another, talking here and there, meeting other people, forgetting about each other.
But I can never forget how to love him.
And when he lets me go, all I can think of is: what a shame. What a shame to watch as twelve years of friendship, love and heartbreak, evaporate in front of my eyes, as if what happened between us doesn’t exist any longer.
I realised in that moment I don’t know him as well as I used to. He was a language I learned to be fluent in but has faded over time.
Whoever sat in front of me that day wasn’t the boy I met at nine years old. He wasn’t the boy I shared chocolate covered biscuits with. Not the boy that had designated a special place for us. Not the boy that would call me to tell me he loves me; to let me know he will always be there for me.
He wasn’t that boy anymore, and I have learned to accept that. There is so much between us left unspoken, and there will come a day where those words will be unleashed, but it is not now.
And I wonder if the garden would ever forgive us for leaving things the way we did.
Farida Shams is a creative writing student at RMIT. She grew up in Egypt, but is now a Melbourne based writer. She has written about encountering first love, inspired by In the Fields by José Julio De Sousa Pinto. Farida usually writes fiction, but has a budding interest in creative nonfiction. She is the Creative Writing Officer of Catalyst, and her works have been featured in the magazine. In her spare time, Farida enjoys reading and spending time with her friends and family.