Write From Home Anthology

Sahar Chalabi, Meknes.

Final Hour Today is the fourth of April, the year 2020. Today is the day I die, and the day I am born again.

I hope it will be late at night when I finish writing this little story of mine; I wish to see the stars. The stars make me feel small, but in no way petty.

I thought and thought about where to start, I think I’ll stick to the beginning. I don’t know where it all started, but to me, it started in this hotel room. I was brought here because I am ill; because too many of us are ill. That same nurse who handed me this paper with the mark of her tear she failed to notice was the one who announced to me, a few days ago, that I had caught the virus of our time… Then a lot happened so fast, and so hectic that I almost have no record of it, and no record of my physical condition either… All I remember was thinking about how I was now lethal. For once, I was glad my children rarely visited, and I was glad my greatest love had died a couple years ago, a death more comfortable than mine was probably going to be, less hectic, free of guilt and worry. I was glad, on one hand, but worried, on another. I worried about the grocery worker and the cashier I had seen more than once this past couple of weeks. I worried about the pharmacist and his sweet three years old who isn’t afraid of smiling at strangers, and the neighbor who helps me with my groceries and whose smile is warmer and gentler than these last few rays of sunshine of this day and of my life, coming into my room through the tiny window. I worried about the nurses and the doctors putting their lives and more on the line for mine… And I’m only human, before the first day of my ending was over, and as the bed next to mine went empty –only to be filled again–, I worried about myself too. I worried about whether I was going to die, I worried about the way I was going to die, what I had become and how I had lived. I worried about what I was going to realize too late, about whether I was going to drown in regrets or reminiscent joy in my final hour, and I worried about my worries, and how they seemed to be consuming what I was sure were my last days.

It didn’t take me long to take shelter in the sweet handful of memories my memory was still hanging onto; reality around me was so bitter. Reality around me was dying alone, gasping for air, lack of resources, fear, regret and guilt brought about by the intertwining of our lives and beings and so much more atrocity… Reality around me was also sacrifice and compassion, solidarity and kindness, and closure despite distance… but amidst all the catastrophe and chaos, these things were almost unrecognizable to me.

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