My sister Meryem was born when I was five years old. At that time, I started forming explicit childhood memories. Meryem was diagnosed with a congenital heart defect. In simple terms, she had a hole in her heart. She used to cry excessively and constantly. Her cries were not like those of infants. They were terrifying shrieks like a blitzkrieg due to their higher intensity. These cries’ sounds filled the entire house. They would follow you in every room and cancel all the other sounds. Hers were the cries of someone who was born to experience excruciating pain.

On a typical day, my mother would be in the kitchen while I upstairs on the roof playing with a few toys I got before the birth of Meryem.  My sister would be in her bedroom, door closed, crying her heart out. My mother usually calls for me to come down to hand me her set of keys, and ask me to wing it over Meryem’s head to distract her from whatever was tormenting her from within. The trick would work but only for a short period. Meryem would stop crying and stare at me like a doll with sunken eyes. Then, her face would become redden with agitation. Her agonizing screams would gush from her mouth, and the black holes that were supposed to be her eyes would be overflown with tears. Cry me a river? Meryem could cry you the whole Atlantic Ocean in a day.

Only three months after her birth, her health had worsened rapidly, and she had to be hospitalized. She needed a ventilator anda feeding tube to supply nutrients. Even her neck had its own hole now. God wanted to pierce that child and add more holes to the holes that already existed. My mother and I used to visit her every Saturday. I do not remember my father ever coming with us.

I liked our Saturday visits because my mother used to get up early in the morning to cook meatballs and French fries to take with us to the hospital. We would take a bus and then a taxi. Both vehicles were filthy and insufferable. That is what public transportation was like during those days. The hospital was big. It looked grey and dull, but it had a lovely garden where visitors could sit to talk, eat, or cry with their loved ones. 

Although we were allowed into Meryem’s room, we never dared to enter. We simply stood outside looking at my sister through a large glass window like two curious puppies. She was always lying there with a tube inside her neck while different machines with their screens and monotonous sounds besieged her. Meryem appeared like a disjointed cyborg.

In the garden, my mother would be too sad to touch the food, so I would have it all to myself. This evoked in me an everlasting love for Saturdays. The delicious food, the sunny weather, and the smell of the freshly-cut grass in the garden always managed to wipe off the image of the sickly sister from my mind. my sickly sister wasn’t going to remain sick for long. The doctors and the machines were going to save her life for sure. The hole was going to be filled, the cries were going to cease, and Meryem was going to grow up to enjoy everything that life had to offer, meatballs and French fries included. 

Three days later, she was dead. She was only nine months old.

Younes El Hamidi