She Wasn't There

I opened the door.

Silence rushed into my face.

It was the same room.

The room where my childhood had lived.

A faded rug covered the floor.

A doll lay abandoned in the corner — lifeless, yet full of memories.

The cloth cradle still hung from the wall.

The same one that once rocked me to sleep.

The doors and windows were wooden, their paint peeling gently with time.

On the plaster mantel, an old mirror sat — next to two crystal candleholders,

a wedding gift from my parents.

Beside them, an antique radio stood still in silence.

And just then…

I could hear my mother’s voice again,

singing softly along with the radio — as if time had never passed.

In the corner stood a vintage cabinet,

one of its doors mirrored.

A wooden chest covered in a worn-out Termeh cloth rested nearby.

On the windowsill, a few pots of geraniums —

the kind my grandmother used to love.

Everything… was in its place.

I laid down quietly on the floor.

Closed my eyes.

Time passed.

I felt thirsty.

I called out:

— Mama… water…

No answer.

Again, I whispered:

— Mama… water… mama…

Nothing.

She wasn’t there.

My mother —

the one who always came when I called her name —

wasn’t there anymore.