I wish I was there when my three friends from Prizren decided to get together and start a café. So I could fight with the crowd of guests on the opening night to “steal” the tiny mezzes from the waiter’s tray. Imagining the taste of crackers with a piece of cheese and an olive never felt as good as eating the stale appetizer among friends.

I wish I was there when my Dad needed to re-install his computer. So that I could’ve backed up all those photos of flowers that he saves in his “Lulet” folder. Somehow, he always finds new ways of capturing the same old flowers in our tiny little jungle of a garden.

I wish I was there when my friend needed me the most, while he was going through those difficult times. So we could’ve talked like men, and shared our sorrows and worries and maybe a joke or two to take away the pain.

I wish I was there when Mom decided to rearrange the furniture in our Prishtina apartment. So that I could have saved some mementos from my childhood: like that old white coffee table whose surface I scratched with a screwdriver when I was bored that one day.

I wish I was there to congratulate my childhood friend for his first successful tooth extraction he performed as a dentist. So I could tease him on the unlikeliness that a kid who couldn’t tie his shoes or clean his nose would excel in a job requiring such dexterity.

I wish I was there, when the pomegranates and mandarin oranges are ripe in my grandma’s garden in Tivar. So that we could eat the fruits with all the kids together once more, as the red juice would drip from our hands leaving permanent marks on our once white t-shirts.

I wish I was there when my cousin earned the next colored belt at his karate club. So that I could slap him on his head asking “Where are your moves now, a?”, after which he would chase me throughout dense jungle of orange trees.

I wish I was there for many things. But yet, I was not. Life goes on without me; I hear of things happening; I make a note of them in my head. Now I even start to wonder if any of those things really happened? I am starting to mix the facts with my imagination. I have been absent for so long, that I am loosing the anchors that keep all these fragmented events together.

I am afraid that one of these days while walking down the street, my foot will slip on a banana peel and while in air I will drop the memories of these events from my firm grip. As I would fall on my back, my jar of marbles will spill across the street.

Scattering in all directions, some marbles will be crushed by speeding cars, while others will fall in nearby sewer vents. Yet others will venture so far away, never to be recovered again.

The article was originally written in English and Albanian.

Illustration: Michael Vincent Manalo

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