This little light of mine

Tonight, Tuesday November 11th, I will look up to the sky, just when it starts to color itself in a darker shade, and you can spot a thin line of gold in the horizon and I will look for the star of Malika. It is the brightest, most beautiful star in the sky… The one that glitters the most… And tonight, I will look for a new one next to hers…That of my grand father.6 months ago, I was stuck on the window seat, in the last row of the Cross-town bus on 86th street. The one right above the engine, that warms up the seat and vibrates.-Please enter your pin number- kept repeating the annoying recorded voice of the $10 phone card I had bought after hearing my mother's voicemail: "I have something to tell you. It's important. Call." For the 10th time, I entered the 9-digit number, pressing my finger hard into the keypad. And once again, I pressed 1 for English, and 2 for international calls followed by the country's area code and my parent's phone number and once again, this whole process was met by silence.I wanted to cry. But he was fine then. It was the heat wave going through Europe and North Africa. And so I thought, my hero was going to live on forever and ever…Where you close? People ask...In a way, no.Mohammed, my grandpa, lived in Tunisia. Always had. Not me. But we spend every summer of my childhood there. He was a very cold man. Never showed emotions. Not even the day after the end of Ramadan, when we went on his daughter's grave- Malika had died too young from a brain tumor- He never hugged his grand children; I had never seen him kiss my grandma. He didn't attend any of his 5 daughter's weddings: he would pose in the house next to the couple and retreat to his room while we all left for the reception. But as we were getting ready to leave, he would pop his head out from the curtain that was used as a door in the summer - a big sheet of yellow, white, green, orange and purple stripes - and he'd wave bye- bye.He always ate alone, sitting on a pillow on his bedroom floor. Curtain down. Do not disturb. The only time he would eat dinner with us was for L'aid-el-kebir. Once the lamb was slashed and cleaned, he would come out of the bedroom, and start making skewers for the mechoui. My job was to chop the onions that made my eyes cry and wash the parsley we'd sprinkle over the meat after the lemon juice. It was the only time he'd cook. He'd also prepare his special salad: red onions, tomatoes and vinegar. My little brother would fan the grill; my aunts got the sodas. My sister couldn't touch it: the lamb had been so cute! We'd eat so much meat our stomachs would hurt. So grandpa would take a mysterious jar from his closet, a mixture of old butter and breadcrumbs and God knows what else. One spoonful and you'd be healed. He'd later dab mint oil on my tummy and fan me with a magazine until I fell asleepWhen he'd walk back home from the tobacco store he owned, he'd smile at me, a finger on his lips and motion towards his bedroom. I'd walk up to the door, take my flip-flops off, tiptoe on the rugs and sit on the bed. There, from the depth of the pockets of his heavy, wool gray coat, the one he'd wear summer and winter, he'd extract a candy bar, or a piece of gum. Just for me. Our little secret. Some days, I went to the shop with him, played with the register and ate all the candies, while he'd give a free cigarette to a homeless, split some warm bread I had burnt my fingers on, coming from the bakery accross from the store. He knew everyone and everyone knew him. He taught us how to count in different languages, ask a kid to watch the store in exchange for a coin, while he went to mid-day prayer at the mosk. I'd run and hide behind him when I got caught doing something I definitely should not have done and he'd make sure I would not get grounded.I'd hold his hand at the end of the day while we walked back home and they were so small, just like mine now. At night time, I'd mimicked his gestures on a mat, facing the Mecca. "Allah ou Wakbar" hands up to the sky…For a long time, I took my cross off when on vacation. Dad said it was out of respect. At 16, right after my baptism, I kept it on and never took it off again. Grandpa said: it's all the same God. I added the hand of Fatima the next day.Last year, I went back after a 3 year absence. My grandfather no longer left his bed. He could barely walk or talk. As I helped him drink the herbal tea I had brought from France, 2 sugars, one ice cube, tea splashed on his chin. He held my hand. His hand so small in my tiny one. He looked up at me, and I saw it in his eyes. My grandfather, 87 years old, sick and tired. So, so tired. I saw it in his eyes last year. Goodbye.So in a way, I guess I was much closer than I thought we were...A year and a half later, before I got a chance to go visit again, he got too tired, and so he left…So tonight, I will look up high and search through the New York lights for the brightest, most beautiful star in the sky. The one that glitters the most. It is the star of Malika. And I will look for a new one, just as amazing, shining right next to it. The star of my grand father. I guess it was time for him to keep her company.