Oummi's Little Notes

Every lunchtime, even before opening my lunchbox, I knew there would be something inside.

Not just my sandwich.

Not just my fruit.

A little piece of paper.

Oummi put one in almost every day.

Sometimes, she wrote:

“Have a good day, my Sana.”

Sometimes:

“Good luck with math. May Allah make it easy for you.”

Sometimes, she just drew a heart.

A huge heart, actually.

Oummi drew hearts as if she was trying to fill the whole page.

And sometimes, she wrote anything.

“I put your favorite dessert in. No, you are not allowed to start with it.”

Or:

“Mission of the day: don’t forget your water bottle at school for the fourth time.”

Once, she even wrote:

“If you are reading this message, it means you managed to open your box. Congratulations.”

I laughed all by myself for at least a minute.

Oummi had been doing this for a long time.

So long that I didn’t even know when she had started.

And I almost never told her that I loved her little notes.

I read them, I smiled, then I folded them and put them in the little pocket of my bag.

As if it was normal.

As if I didn’t look for them every lunchtime before even starting to eat.

---

One Tuesday, I was sitting with Sofia and Selma.

We ate together almost every day.

Sofia was telling something about her gym class, Selma was trying to open her yogurt without spilling it everywhere, and I opened my box.

The little piece of paper was right on top of my napkin.

I recognized it right away.

Oummi had used the yellow paper.

I was about to take it when Sofia was faster.

“What’s that?”

She grabbed it.

My stomach did a funny thing.

“Nothing, give it.”

But she had already unfolded it.

There was a little heart in a corner.

Obviously.

A huge heart.

Sofia read:

“Good luck with your test. You know your lesson. I’m thinking of you.”

Then she looked at me.

“Your mom writes you that?”

“Yes.”

She smiled.

Not meanly.

Just surprised.

“She still puts little notes in your box?”

Selma looked up from her yogurt.

Sofia laughed.

“That’s so babyish!”

And Selma smiled too.

Not for long.

Just a little smile.

But I saw it.

I don’t know why, but all of a sudden, the yellow paper seemed much bigger in Sofia’s hands.

The heart too.

Especially the heart.

I reached out my hand.

“Come on, give it.”

She gave it back to me.

Then I laughed with them.

“Seriously, she’s too much.”

The words came out on their own.

Sofia had already started telling her story again.

Selma had finally managed to open her yogurt.

And I folded the paper.

Once.

Then again.

Then again.

Until it became very small.

I slipped it to the bottom of my pocket.

I didn’t even reread the message.

---

In the afternoon, during the test, I thought of a sentence.

Not Oummi’s.

Sofia’s.

That’s so babyish.

I was ten years old.

I wasn’t a baby anymore.

I knew how to pack my bag by myself.

I could stay at a friend’s house without Oummi.

I knew how to do my homework without being reminded every five minutes to get started.

Well… almost.

So maybe Sofia was right.

---

In the evening, Oummi was in the kitchen.

She was preparing something for the next day while I filled my water bottle.

I stayed quiet for a moment.

Then I said:

“Oummi?”

“Yes?”

“You know the little notes you put in my box?”

She kept tidying up.

“Yes.”

“You can stop now.”

She turned around.

Not completely.

Just enough to look at me.

“You don’t want them anymore?”

I shrugged.

“No.”

Then I added:

“I’m not five anymore.”

Oummi looked at me for a second.

Maybe I was waiting for her to ask why.

Or to say:

“But you like them though.”

Or to try to convince me.