by Maria Ali Jawad
Every Sunday, Mrs. Jameeleh chooses the blue cardigan before the nurses begin their morning rounds and waits.
She keeps it folded in the second drawer beside her bed, wrapped in tissue paper as if it were silk. “Joseph likes this color on me,” she tells anyone who asks. “He always says it brightens my complexion.”
The hallway smells faintly of antiseptic and overcooked carrots drifting from the kitchen, yet Mrs. Jameeleh breathes in as if she might catch Joseph’s dark, sweet oud instead.
In the main lounge, she sits by the wide window where the sun warms her knees through the glass. From there, she can see the parking lot.
“He always comes after church,” she says, a soft pride warming her voice as she looks toward an unfazed Mrs. Therese in the armchair across from her. “He never misses it, ilhamdillah. I raised him properly.”
Mrs. Therese hums but says nothing.
Mrs. Jameeleh smooths her skirt. Her frail hands tremble slightly now, but she keeps her back straight. “When he was little, he would hide behind my coat before school. He cried the first week. Held onto me so tightly I thought the buttons would snap.” She chuckles at the memory. “Such a sensitive boy.”
Around eleven, she hears the elevator doors open.
Her heart lifts, like it does every Sunday. “That will be him!”
Footsteps echo against the tiled floor as nurses move past with medication carts. A volunteer wheels in a tray of tea. The clock ticks loudly above the television.
“He called yesterday,” Mrs. Jameeleh leans forward. “He said, ‘Mama, don’t wait outside. I will find you.’ But I like to wait. I want him to see me first.”
At noon, she asks the nurse at the desk, “Has my Joey signed in?”
The nurse offers a gentle smile. “Not yet.”
“He must be stuck in traffic. He drives too fast. I tell him all the time, slow down, ya immi*.” She heaves a sigh, then adds, “He never listens.”
By one o’clock, the sunlight had shifted away from her chair. The warmth leaves her knees cold.
“He works very hard,” she shakes her head at Mrs. Therese. “He does not rest enough. I worry about him.”
At two, she is still watching the parking lot.
In the small office down the hall, a new caregiver stands with a clipboard. “Does her son usually come this late?” she asks quietly.
The head nurse lowers her voice. “He does not come anymore.”
The caregiver frowns. “But she said—”
“It has been five years,” the nurse says gently. “Car accident. Sunday morning.”
The caregiver’s eyes widen.
“We do not correct her,” the nurse continues. “It is kinder this way. She remembers him happiest on Sundays.”
Down the hall, Mrs. Jameeleh straightens in her chair as a car door slams outside.
Her breath catches. She adjusts the blue cardigan and smooths her silver hair.
“There he is,” she whispers, her voice bright with certainty.
And she waits, smiling at the door.
*Ya immi is a common Arabic phrase (used here in Levantine Arabic) that means “my mom.” Arab parents call their children “mama” or “baba” primarily as a term of deep endearment similar to “sweetheart” and “my love.”
Maria Ali Jawad is a graduate with a BA in Psychology based in the UAE with an interest in memory, perception, and human behavior. She loves exploring subtle psychological tension in her writing and the blurred boundaries between reality and what is remembered or believed.
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