Maadi

It’s 3:00 PM, and I’m trying to squeeze these words out quickly before you wake up from your second nap. When I woke up this morning, I had a few ideas for today’s slice, but I needed to rehearse them for a few days before I tried to write them down. So here I am, typing these lines and glaring at my writer’s notebook, hoping something will pop out.

Conferring with A? Hmm, no. The summer writing institute with Christy? I’ll definitely tell you about it, but not now. Oh, I see a photo I took of Road 210 on a Friday morning. I think I want to describe that moment to you.

You just need to walk in a [mostly] straight line when you go from the Kimo building to Beano’s. I remember precisely the morning I took that photo. As I crossed the street, the bowabs waved at me, carefully avoiding the warm and funny-smelling puddles. If you look at the picture, you might think it had rained the day before, but it was just the water from the car washing that happens every weekend in the corner house.

I hear a car driving towards me from behind, so I step to the left to wait for it to pass. At that moment, the clouds opened up, and a few rays of sunshine fell on everything in sight. The brightness reflected on the whiteness of the taxi, and I was overcome with emotion—So much emotion that I took out my phone to capture the moment.

Sadness and hopelessness ruled my days that weekend. Dad had moved to Miami, and I was still in Cairo, waiting for my visa to come through so I could join him. One day, I’ll tell you about 2020 and what it meant for us (yes, we will also tell you many pandemic tales). I’ll also tell you how I learned to cope with a lack of control and how disconnecting from others helped me connect with myself. At that moment, staring at the sun pushing through from behind a big tree and onto that white taxi, I knew that I’d want to remember this moment, this spot on Road 210, this place I called home for almost seven years.

Maadi meant so much for me and us as a family. But it was also a time in my life when I learned to be on my own, to follow my gut instead of the advice of those who love me. I discovered that just because others thought one thing was good for me, it didn’t mean it was what I needed. Wanting to be alone was okay then, and I didn’t have to feel bad for going against what others thought would make me feel better.

Elena, as I write these letters, I’m realizing something. Yes, I want you to read them and consider what I tell you. I want you to learn how you gave my decision-making process a whole new perspective thanks to you, but I also like you to read them and still feel like you can decide something else is best for you. It scares me to say this, but I know I’ll be okay with whatever decision you make as an adult.