A story
Nada Fills a Glass Jar With Grandma's Happiest Memories
In one week, Grandma Zahra would be seventy years old.
Everyone in the family was getting ready. Auntie Siham was planning a big lunch with stuffed grape leaves and rice with nuts. Uncle Khalid was going to bring his old oud and play the songs Grandma liked. Mama was baking a cake with three layers and orange blossom cream.
And Nada, who was six and three-quarters, wanted to give Grandma the best present of all.
The trouble was, she did not know what it should be.
On Sunday, she tried to knit Grandma a scarf, the way Grandma had once shown her. But the wool got tangled in a big knot, and the scarf came out only as long as her finger.
On Monday, she tried to make Grandma a necklace from dry pasta shapes. But the string was too short, and the pasta kept sliding off, and her little brother ate two of the shapes.
On Tuesday, she sat on the kitchen floor with her chin in her hands.
"Grandma already has everything," she sighed. "She has scarves and necklaces and flowers and teacups. What can I give her that she does not have?"
Mama was washing a big pot. She thought for a moment. "When Grandma visits," she said, "what does she like to do most?"
Nada did not even have to think. "She likes to tell stories. About when you were little. About when she was little. About the old house with the jasmine tree."
"That's right," said Mama. "Grandma loves her memories. They are like treasures to her."
Nada sat up straight. An idea was blooming in her head.
"Mama," she said, "can I have an empty jar?"
Mama found a big glass jar that had once been full of olives. They washed it in hot soapy water until it sparkled. Nada tied a red ribbon around the neck. Then she cut a stack of paper into long, thin strips, some yellow, some pink, some blue.
"What are those for?" asked Mama.
"For memories," said Nada. "I am going to collect happy memories of Grandma from everyone in the family. And I will put them all in the jar."
Mama smiled so wide that her eyes crinkled. "I will help you write them," she said.
The first memory came from Mama herself. She sat at the table with a cup of mint tea and closed her eyes.
"When I was your age," she said, "I was scared of the dark. And every night, Grandma sat by my bed and sang the moon song until I fell asleep. She never once got tired of singing it."
Nada wrote it down on a yellow strip, slowly and carefully. Mama helped with the long words. Then Nada rolled the strip up like a tiny scroll and dropped it in the jar.
On Wednesday, Nada called Uncle Khalid on the phone.
"A happy memory of Grandma?" said Uncle Khalid. He laughed his big rumbly laugh. "When I was ten, I fell off my bicycle and tore my trousers. I was afraid she would be angry. But she just sat down on the sidewalk next to me and said, 'Let's fix both of you.' She put a bandage on my knee and sewed a patch on my trousers shaped like a star."
Nada wrote it on a pink strip.
On Thursday, Auntie Siham came to visit. She told about the time Grandma taught her to make bread, and they used so much flour that the whole kitchen turned white, even the cat. Nada laughed so hard while she wrote it down that her letters came out wobbly.
Grandpa Fuad remembered the day he met Grandma, at a little shop in the market, when she was buying red apples. "She gave me the shiniest apple," he said softly. "And I gave her my heart."
Even Nada's baby brother wanted to help. He could not talk much yet, but he drew a big scribbly circle with two dots and a smile.
"That is Grandma," Nada explained. She rolled it up and put it in the jar too.
By Friday, the jar was almost full. There were memories from cousins and neighbors and old friends. There was a memory from the baker on the corner, who said Grandma always asked about his children.
Nada wrote one last strip, all by herself. Then she put the lid on, tied the ribbon in a big bow, and hid the jar under her bed.
On Saturday, the house was full of people and music and the smell of good food. Uncle Khalid played the oud. Grandma Zahra sat in the big armchair in her lilac dress, smiling at everyone.
After the cake, it was time for presents. Grandma opened a soft shawl, a box of chocolates, and a pot of white flowers.
Then it was Nada's turn. Her hands felt shaky as she carried the jar across the room.
"Happy birthday, Grandma," she said. "It is a jar of memories. Your memories. From everyone who loves you."
Grandma Zahra held the jar up to the light. All the little rolled papers glowed yellow and pink and blue. She opened the lid and took out the first one. She unrolled it and read it.
It was the moon song memory. Grandma's eyes became shiny. She looked at Mama across the room, and Mama smiled back.
Grandma read another, and another. She laughed out loud at the flour story. She pressed the star-patch memory against her heart. When she read Grandpa Fuad's apple memory, she reached out and held his hand, and nobody said anything for a little while.
Then she found the last strip. It was in Nada's own wobbly writing. She read it out loud, so everyone could hear.
"My happiest memory is every time you hug me and say, 'You are my sunshine.'"
The room went very quiet. Grandma Zahra put the jar down gently and opened her arms. Nada climbed right into her lap.
"You are my sunshine," Grandma whispered into her hair. "Do you know, I have lived seventy years, and this is the most beautiful present I have ever been given."
"Even better than the scarf?" asked Nada.
"Much better," laughed Grandma.
That night, Grandma took the jar home and put it on the shelf by her bed. And sometimes, on quiet afternoons, she took out a memory and read it again. Then she would pick up a fresh strip of paper and write down a new one, so the jar would never stop growing.
Everyone in the family was getting ready. Auntie Siham was planning a big lunch with stuffed grape leaves and rice with nuts. Uncle Khalid was going to bring his old oud and play the songs Grandma liked. Mama was baking a cake with three layers and orange blossom cream.
And Nada, who was six and three-quarters, wanted to give Grandma the best present of all.
The trouble was, she did not know what it should be.
On Sunday, she tried to knit Grandma a scarf, the way Grandma had once shown her. But the wool got tangled in a big knot, and the scarf came out only as long as her finger.
On Monday, she tried to make Grandma a necklace from dry pasta shapes. But the string was too short, and the pasta kept sliding off, and her little brother ate two of the shapes.
On Tuesday, she sat on the kitchen floor with her chin in her hands.
"Grandma already has everything," she sighed. "She has scarves and necklaces and flowers and teacups. What can I give her that she does not have?"
Mama was washing a big pot. She thought for a moment. "When Grandma visits," she said, "what does she like to do most?"
Nada did not even have to think. "She likes to tell stories. About when you were little. About when she was little. About the old house with the jasmine tree."
"That's right," said Mama. "Grandma loves her memories. They are like treasures to her."
Nada sat up straight. An idea was blooming in her head.
"Mama," she said, "can I have an empty jar?"
Mama found a big glass jar that had once been full of olives. They washed it in hot soapy water until it sparkled. Nada tied a red ribbon around the neck. Then she cut a stack of paper into long, thin strips, some yellow, some pink, some blue.
"What are those for?" asked Mama.
"For memories," said Nada. "I am going to collect happy memories of Grandma from everyone in the family. And I will put them all in the jar."
Mama smiled so wide that her eyes crinkled. "I will help you write them," she said.
The first memory came from Mama herself. She sat at the table with a cup of mint tea and closed her eyes.
"When I was your age," she said, "I was scared of the dark. And every night, Grandma sat by my bed and sang the moon song until I fell asleep. She never once got tired of singing it."
Nada wrote it down on a yellow strip, slowly and carefully. Mama helped with the long words. Then Nada rolled the strip up like a tiny scroll and dropped it in the jar.
On Wednesday, Nada called Uncle Khalid on the phone.
"A happy memory of Grandma?" said Uncle Khalid. He laughed his big rumbly laugh. "When I was ten, I fell off my bicycle and tore my trousers. I was afraid she would be angry. But she just sat down on the sidewalk next to me and said, 'Let's fix both of you.' She put a bandage on my knee and sewed a patch on my trousers shaped like a star."
Nada wrote it on a pink strip.
On Thursday, Auntie Siham came to visit. She told about the time Grandma taught her to make bread, and they used so much flour that the whole kitchen turned white, even the cat. Nada laughed so hard while she wrote it down that her letters came out wobbly.
Grandpa Fuad remembered the day he met Grandma, at a little shop in the market, when she was buying red apples. "She gave me the shiniest apple," he said softly. "And I gave her my heart."
Even Nada's baby brother wanted to help. He could not talk much yet, but he drew a big scribbly circle with two dots and a smile.
"That is Grandma," Nada explained. She rolled it up and put it in the jar too.
By Friday, the jar was almost full. There were memories from cousins and neighbors and old friends. There was a memory from the baker on the corner, who said Grandma always asked about his children.
Nada wrote one last strip, all by herself. Then she put the lid on, tied the ribbon in a big bow, and hid the jar under her bed.
On Saturday, the house was full of people and music and the smell of good food. Uncle Khalid played the oud. Grandma Zahra sat in the big armchair in her lilac dress, smiling at everyone.
After the cake, it was time for presents. Grandma opened a soft shawl, a box of chocolates, and a pot of white flowers.
Then it was Nada's turn. Her hands felt shaky as she carried the jar across the room.
"Happy birthday, Grandma," she said. "It is a jar of memories. Your memories. From everyone who loves you."
Grandma Zahra held the jar up to the light. All the little rolled papers glowed yellow and pink and blue. She opened the lid and took out the first one. She unrolled it and read it.
It was the moon song memory. Grandma's eyes became shiny. She looked at Mama across the room, and Mama smiled back.
Grandma read another, and another. She laughed out loud at the flour story. She pressed the star-patch memory against her heart. When she read Grandpa Fuad's apple memory, she reached out and held his hand, and nobody said anything for a little while.
Then she found the last strip. It was in Nada's own wobbly writing. She read it out loud, so everyone could hear.
"My happiest memory is every time you hug me and say, 'You are my sunshine.'"
The room went very quiet. Grandma Zahra put the jar down gently and opened her arms. Nada climbed right into her lap.
"You are my sunshine," Grandma whispered into her hair. "Do you know, I have lived seventy years, and this is the most beautiful present I have ever been given."
"Even better than the scarf?" asked Nada.
"Much better," laughed Grandma.
That night, Grandma took the jar home and put it on the shelf by her bed. And sometimes, on quiet afternoons, she took out a memory and read it again. Then she would pick up a fresh strip of paper and write down a new one, so the jar would never stop growing.
