'The Hairbrush' by M Murniati

My husband was three inches shorter than me. His mother was much shorter. I’d catch the sight of the lumps of flesh beneath her abaya as she walked, the fabric sweeping the floor like a river. Patches of coat of dust meandering on her soles. I didn’t mean to look down at her.

She liked to show me her plants, insisting my wearing a pair of rubber sandals she’d brought them herself for me and ushered me into her garden. So my feet weren’t as brown as hers, she joked. I went. Despite my hay fever. I’d follow her, the pollens chasing behind me. Once I spotted a Hyacinth bush cut short. Too short. ‘Me going mad,’ she glanced at it, laughing. As if she could’ve guessed. My face flushed under the sun.

We flew to visit her twice after her husband had a heart attack. Her eldest son gave her comfort.I didn’t think much the loosening of her housedress. The absence of the mud-caked heels. Her thin smile. Algae spread in the crevices of the walls. Her Jasmine bush were yellowing, thorny branches of wild roses finding their ways onto the paved path.

 I was trying hard not to stare at the leg ulcers on her tibia. Her lips quivered while she was asking after my children. ‘Habibti, bring them next time, yes?’ she tittered. As if she’d known. We were sitting in the gazebo drinking the mint tea in the simmering heat. She put too much sugar in mine.

 While I was unpacking my husband’s luggage, I found my flat hairbrush. I’d been looking for it for months. He’d returned from her funeral, of which I didn’t go. He’d missed her burial despite his trying best to get on the next flight available.

Holding the hairbrush in the sunlight, I saw strands of hairs. Not my colour. I’d had it since I was ten. Mum used it to blow-drying my waist-length hair. I remembered its teeth running over my head in rhythm with the gentle scratching of her nails. She’d do it until she could only do it in bed. I’d brush her hair in turn, sighing every time clumps of her black hair fell on my lap.

I put the hairbrush aside. With the hairs on.

Under his laundry bag the scented smell of mint leaves, wrapped in papers on Arab news, wafting in the air. He always brought back a bunch of them and I’d make us a pot of sugar-free tea. I’d put the stems in the water hoping that somehow my attempt to propagate them in English weather would be fruitful. So far, none.

There’s a Muslim tradition of kissing the back of your in-laws’ hands after the wedding ceremony. I had to crouched over them, their sitting awaiting the bride. When I got closer promptly she rose from her seat. I remembered her calloused hands cupped my face. Our eyes met. I didn’t have to look down at her. For once.