The ambulance sirens are wailing, first distant, then louder, then distant again. Another victim fighting for his life. Her life?
After the Coronavirus epidemic ends, the first thing I plan to do is give my children and grandchildren a grateful hug; and my daughters-in-law. In person. Not an emoji.
My first-born, now a 47-year old, his forehead receding, his tight-black curls with shades of grey, will be waiting in the parking lot of the train station at Hamilton, New Jersey. I will spot him from a distance, standing outside his gray Honda. Will I forget to wave and just rush over? Will he shyly embrace me, or has he forgotten how to give a hug? I will look up at his face. Has he lost weight? I will gently touch his cheek with the back of my hand, and I might just tear-up. He will open the trunk, put our bags in, as I open the car to the back seat and settle in. I will be quiet as he drives us home, letting my husband do the talking. We have been chatting on the phone almost daily; now it’s time to just watch the back of his head and know that he made it. Taking care of patients in the hotspot of Philadelphia, my baby made it.
“Daadi is here,” I will call out as we walk into the kitchen through the garage, leaving our shoes in the mudroom. My grandchildren call me Daadi.
Who will emerge first? Probably our daughter-in-law, who would probably be in the kitchen, preparing lunch for us, trying out a new recipe. She is not a hugger, but boy is she pretty! She will turn around from the stove, spatula in hand, with a bright smile, and a cheery ‘Salaam Alaikum.’ I will give her a hug anyway.
“Where is everybody?” I look around at the empty living room.
I can hear myself squeal as my 10-year old granddaughter emerges out of the pantry-closet. Kneeling, I will wrap her skinny self in my arms.
“Let me see. Did you get taller in the last three months?” With her Dora haircut, bangs and all, she will smile, dimpling her cheeks. Will she still be skinny or did stay-at-home put some fat around her waist. Hard to tell on a Zoom call.
Another siren. Someone’s mom?
My grandson walks in, gives me this Mona Lisa smile, keeps walking, flailing his arms, as he always did.
“Salaam Alaikum!” I walk over to him, hold his shoulders, and look into his eyes. At 18, he is taller than me.
“Salaam Alaikum Daadi,” he says under his breath, barely audible. Then he smiles. I won’t hug him. He doesn’t do well with hugs. He has autism.
“There you are!” My beautiful 16-year old granddaughter comes bouncing down the stairs, looking radiant, her earrings dangling. She has my curly hair, the only one from my 4 grandchildren who has my hair. We have been talking on Facetime every day for the last three months, doing Urdu language lessons. I give her the tightest of hugs. She can handle it. Like always, she giggles.
I look around the room. Something’s different. It’s the same furniture, same wall hangings, the plants have grown, but it’s not that. Something feels different—different in a feel-good way. Hmmm!
The siren. Someone’s Dad?
I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin around. Our other son and his family had arrived the night before. He is smiling down at me. He has grown a stubby beard, with a sprinkle of grey. So handsome. I get the warmest bear hug and he holds me for more than a few seconds.
“Now don’t cry, Mummy.”
His little 8-year has her arms wrapped around my waist, lifts up her face, puckering her lips and I get the most delicious kiss.
“Hi auntie,” my daughter-in-law gently walks up and I get a squeezy hug. She is a hugger.
“Have you lost weight?” I ask. Shelter-in-place hasn’t been easy.
“Auntie, you look like you lost weight.”
Actually, I am losing weight. Go figure.
“Come to the basement,” the girls grab my hand. “We have made a spa. But first you have to make an appointment.” They pull me away and off I go.
“Time to get a massage.” I call out. “Goodbye Corona.”
The siren wails.
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