It has been a few months since my aunt, Afërdita, passed away. She didn’t know how sick she was. Her family didn’t tell her. My parents didn’t tell me either, as they didn’t want me to worry. They were also afraid that I would accidentally mention it to my aunt during our calls. All this to prevent her from feeling hopeless.
She dreamed of kids, but unfortunately could not bear any. My two sisters and I were blessed to have a second mother like her.
My aunt, who was an architect, taught me many things, from technical drawing to typing on a keyboard. It was an old-fashioned typewriter. And even after she has passed away, she continues to teach. She teaches through her art, her paintings. Through collecting flowers at her childhood home, before the change of seasons causes them to decay.
And even after she has passed away, she continues to teach.
One year, rather than leaving the flowers to rot, she collected them. She put them between the pages of forgotten books in her bookcase. She left them under the pressure and weight of other books. The flowers flattened and dried, as if the books sucked away their life and carried their story between the sheets of paper, waiting to be opened again and discovered.
After many days, we revisited the flowers left to dry. We placed the dried flowers on the wooden floor, selecting the most beautiful ones and putting them in sturdy cardboard with a black background. We clipped a piece of glass on top, rendering them airtight and preserving the flowers forever. They enliven the walls to this day, many years later.
The flowers defy time behind their glass encasement and spark memories of my aunt. Her presence and legacy are still felt, encapsulated in the beauty of each pressed flower, ensuring that she will never be forgotten. It’s a reminder that our loved ones continue to shape us through the lessons they imparted and the love they shared, long after they leave this world. In this way, my aunt taught me an invaluable lesson about the art of preserving memories: memory activism at its most basic human level.
It's a reminder that our loved ones continue to shape us through the lessons they imparted and the love they shared, long after they leave this world.
The last time I saw her was when I visited her in the hospital, two days after arriving back in my hometown, Prishtina. I brought her a gift, a painted wild chestnut gifted to me from an old man in Split. It is said that painted chestnuts bring great luck, so I gave the painted chestnut to my aunt as a good luck charm. In my mind, she would beat cancer. My mom slid a bill into my pocket. I gave that money to my aunt, for even luck doesn’t pay medical bills. I learned long ago that while it is wonderful to give sentimental gifts for good luck, sometimes money is the most needed gift.
There are many stages of grief after a loved one’s passing. In my culture, I am supposed to be strong and not show sadness in gatherings, as doing so will start a chain of tears. The elders, those who are wisest, are expected to speak. However, this tradition was not adhered to in our gathering. The young as well as the old spoke. Everyone listened without interruption. I did not process it much. I wasn’t in denial; I was staying present and being there for my family. But it was too soon for me to deeply think about the changes that were coming.
It wasn’t until I returned to Prague that the suppressed thoughts found their way to my heart. The realization that a loved one had departed hit me hard. One night, I was walking home through a small park amid tall trees when I stopped and stood still. There was movement around me, people going from one place to the other, as was I.
While I was walking, in motion, I wasn’t alert to other people walking just as I was. Our motion was in such harmony that the static objects — buildings, trees, the cobblestone street — seemed to be moving and grasped my attention more. I stopped walking and noticed that people walking around made me more alert, and this grabbed my attention. A chain of thought had started that led me to look around at the trees.
I stopped and looked around, thinking that only static objects see all movement and can consciously speak about it. Thoughts, when moving and staying in one place, are different. I felt the blood flowing through my heart and a sense of warmth around it. I noticed the yellow leaves falling down from the trees, resigned to decay.
I noticed the yellow leaves falling down from the trees, resigned to decay.
“One dies when one is forgotten,” I said to myself. My chest, feeling heavy, started to get lighter and I noticed movement from my chest to my neck, my mouth muscles moving slightly, my eyes tearing up and letting my heart express itself. The burden of a heavy chest was lifted by allowing the tears to come out, in contrast to when I was back home and forced to remain stoic. As the tears started flowing down my face, they reached my chin.
As I closed and opened my eyes, a single teardrop landed on a fallen leaf. I bent down and picked up that leaf, which now represented my emotions. As if I heard a voice, I started collecting all the leaves around me. I gathered all that my hands could carry and walked home. I grabbed my heaviest books, opened the pages and put the leaves inside to flatten and dry. I saved the teardrop leaf for last. It is now in the middle of my artwork. My aunt Afërdita will forever be remembered, her presence felt from the walls of my home.
Feature Image: From Ard Kelmendi’s Archive.
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