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After knocking on all the doors in the building with a plate
of halva, I returned to her flat. As I approached the door,
women’s voices spilled out into the building. For a short
moment, it sounded as if Ameli was still alive, in the middle
of one of her ladies’ parties. I went in feeling like that shy
schoolgirl stepping into the tea and perfume-scented world
of my grandmother and her friends. Instead, I found my
mother, aunts, cousins, and Ameli’s friends gathered
around the antique oak table in the lounge preparing to
have halva with piping hot tea from tulip-shaped glasses.
Later that evening, when everyone had eaten, said their
prayers and left, I stood in Ameli’s kitchen in the dark,
leaning against the counter, watching the lives playing in
the windows of the adjacent building. I wondered how
many of these people had watched Ameli’s window before
the curtain went down. I stood there for a long time before
starting to talk to the silence and the darkness. I talked as if
Ameli was there, sitting at the head of the old kitchen table,
serving food and listening to me with more attention than
anyone else has ever been capable of. I talked knowing that
we keep talking with our loved ones even from the other
side of eternity and that they talk with us too, if we know
how to listen.
Flour Halva (Un Helvası) to talk with our loved ones:
1 cup wheat flour