For Teta,
who knew every face in the album.
She made kibbeh for thirty people on Christmas. She remembered every grandchild's birthday, every neighbor's quarrel, every recipe her own mother had taught her in a village that no longer exists.
The last time I visited, she couldn't place me. The room went quiet, and my family tried to coax it out of her. "Teta, you know who this is. Look. Tell us who she is." She searched my face. I watched her search, and I watched it hurt. The shame of not knowing is its own grief, and it was happening to her in front of all of us.
Later, someone brought down the old photo albums. And there I was, in her arms, a baby, and she knew. She named every face on the page. The girl in the white dress, the wedding in 1985, the cousin in Beirut. The faces hadn't been lost. The bridge to them had.
Zekra is the companion I wish she'd had. A phone in her pocket that knew our faces, held our stories, and never made her feel ashamed for asking. It can't bring her back. But for the next family, maybe it can keep a little more of the warmth in the room.
