Twentieth Lovely

Two days later, Gora had won. Couro felt the need to specify where she and Gora had growing up versus where I and Kutu had grown up. It was slightly irritating but made for an extra few lines to her presentation speech. And even though it irritated me, I couldn't deny that she needed more of those. So in between revising my show plans, I offered to help her out. With the speech done and reviewed, it was time for her poster.
It shouldn't have been too difficult. Her teacher had made and emailed out templates for their posters and all the kids had to do was fill in the blanks and customize the empty space. Couro and I spent an hour printing out pictures that represented our small family unit and Couro herself. I lamented them for her and she covered them all in glitter. They were just pictures of the food we liked to eat, games we played, certain days Couro valued--stuff like that.

I'll admit, I got more than a bit emotional going through and listening to her limited memories. It was mostly just stories of back when Gora and I got along. While our relationship had gone downhill since Kutu's death, we were able to be civil enough to give Couro a few years of good times together. And when she talked about taking a picture with her mother on the first day of pre-school, I had to choke back tears. It was the only thing she could remember of Kutu--and the most vivid. She so well encaptured Kutu's hazel eyes, her brown upwards coils, her contagious smile. I was normally much better with talking about Kutu--years of grief allowed me to come to peace with what happened. But something about watching Coro talk about her was made me so emotional. It wasn't until Dot ran into my arms that I managed to pull myself together.

Behind him, Gora followed, putting his leash back in the drawer.

I smiled at him, "Thanks again for taking him out."

Gora just grunted, then tossed a few pieces of paper between Couro and I. "Here's the template for the poster." They were printed sheets of the boxes Couro's teacher emailed out. All we had to do was fill them in, cut them out, and put them on the poster we just finished personalizing.

"Wonderful. Can you take Dot?" Again, he only grunted then shuffled away. Sighing, I scooped up the puppy. "Alright then..."

Couro got to work and started filling out the boxes while I watched. As she did, a certain pair had caught my eye. Two frames side by side labeled 'mom' and 'dad.' Eventually, she got to them, and I hyperfocused on her when she did. In 'dad,' she confidently scribbled my name. The way she wrote it, it was as if she had heard and seen it a million times. Her pen just glided through 'Samba Miske' as if it was her own name. When she got to the other label, she paused, her brain going blank. She looked up at me, her eyes asking for help. 

"Kutu Miske," I muttered. "K-U-T-U. Miske." 

While writing in the 'mom' space, she asked, "Daddy, what happened to Mommy?"
"She got sick." The same answer I always gave her. Telling her about the P.P.S. could lead to her blaming herself and that was the last thing this family needed. "She couldn't recover well and her body gave up." Couro made a face at me, clearly wanting a more detailed answer. I didn't answer and starring into Dot's coat, letting her curiosity die.
A moment later, she picked up a laminated label. 'کورو' This one, in particular, was her favorite. While gluing it down to the poster, she asked me, "Did Mommy speak Arabic?"

I smiled, remember Kutu and I's first meeting and conversation, which was purely in Hassānīya since we both passing through Assaba at the time. I chuckled at how awkward and embarrassed we both were, seeing as we really weren't supposed to have been talking at all. My Imam would have crucified me if he had heard of the encounter. It was an old feeling seeing where we had ended up...teenage me would've never seen any of this coming. "Yeah, fluently, actually."

"Can I learn?" 

So, I decided to teach her what I knew. Put Dot in a cage I had picked up and sat her down beside her finished poster. For about an hour, we sat on the floor, going back and forth with pronunciation and basic letters. Watching her eyes light up whenever I showed her new letters and how to pronounce them...it was so cathartic. All of my worries about the show, Dot, Rachel, the up and coming Thanksgiving--they just all fizzled away. In her interest, I saw Gora's eyes. Back when he was a small, little boy who loved when Daddy told him stories about where his family was from. Back when Kutu's sisters all lived minutes away from us and Gora would play with all thirteen of his cousins. Back when Kutu would fill the house with new murals every month.

Almost ten years ago.

"Daddy?" she asked, pulling on my arm. "How come you're so good at Arabic?"
"I grew up speaking it, sweetie. It was my first language." I shrugged her off. "I just don't really use it."
"Why not?" Her face turned, the way little kids did when they don't understand something. But I just shrugged again.
"Won't you forget?"
"You never forget your mother tongue. No matter what I teach you, you'll always have your English." Placing my hand on her head, I toyed with her brown coils. So similar to her mother's.
Right then, her stomach growled and she giggled at it.
"What's 'food'?"
"طَعام" 

I heard a scruffled laugh from behind me. Sulking and leaning on the doorframe, was my one and only son. "Gora..."

He didn't look at me at first. Instead, he walked over and stooped next to Couro, studying her crooked writing. "You used to teach me. Remember? I made a whole speech to the class once in, admittedly, very broken Arabic. No one understood me except for the one kid who was actually fluent. Man, did I shamed for that." 

He let out a raspy laugh and I couldn't help but chuckle along. "Was I that bad a teacher?"
"You're alright. Mom never wanted me to focus on it. I don't blame her. Monte's the only non-relative I've met who speaks--and he's back in Little Rock." Kutu was very adamant that the kids grew up in their homes and not ours. She didn't want Gora and Couro to be defined by their roots. We still spoke in front of them--immersing in their culture was always meant to be an option--but she didn't want it to be everything.

Abruptly Couro gasped. She whipped her head over to Gora, "You should join us."
"Sure."

"I'll go get Gora a pen." She scrambled to her feet and ran out of the room.

While she was gone, I so desperately wanted to talk to Gora. Seeing him in Couro reminded me of what our relationship used to be and I was willing to do anything to have that back. 

But just as I was about to say something, he dropped to the spot right next to me. Gulping, he sat up and looked dead at me.

"Hey, Dad. Sorry if it seemed like I was one-upping you the other day. It's just hard being the son of immigrants and not really knowing where you're from. Like I know you're from Mauritania but that's about it. I'm not immersed in the culture, barely know the language...my roots are here, Dad. And since we're not gonna be in Little Rock anymore, the only place I've really called home...it sucks, y'know? Probably only lashed out at you from frustration. So, I'm sorry."

For a minute, I just stared at him. Confused, but relieved, I pulled him into a hug. He squirmed a bit--a lot--but I was not about to let go. "I'm sorry too. I'm sorry that I let it get to this point, I really am. It never should have been like this." 

"Hugs!" I felt another pair of arms, admittedly tinier, wrap around my neck. Gora laughed and finally relaxed into the embrace.