Believe me when I say that Mama never let the apartment get filthy. Dust, sand, stained walls: all of it was avoided by keeping the balcony closed, the floors constantly swept. She even made me sweep the floors with my feet. “Press harder,” she said, pointing to the arch of my foot, as I pressed the wet paper towel across the concrete floor. My mother was quite obsessed with cleanliness. The only thing she slacked on was the dishes. Otherwise, the counters were gleaming. Floors smelling like lemon. She didn’t drink her coffee until the entire apartment was wiped at least once. One day, after we rode a taxi from my auntie’s house, I started itching at my scalp. A bug fell from my hair to the floor. Mama screamed. She called the pharmacy immediately, her voice steady and focused. I sat on a chair in the bathroom for three hours while she rubbed medicine on my scalp and picked at the lice, strand by strand. Carefully, she analyzed every bit of my head. She went through it three times. I could feel her determined fingers as they traced my scalp. Cold, thorough fingers. She made faces as she did it. Sometimes she cried. She admitted she’d had a phobia of bugs since she was a kid. When she was done, she wrapped my hair in plastic wrap and then covered it with a bonnet and instructed that I don’t touch it, even if I was dying of itchiness. Then it was her turn. She couldn’t see the back of her head, so I had to do it. I stood over her. I was twelve and I didn’t know much. She had done everything for me in life so far, even my laundry. She had never given me much responsibility. Under her instructions, I threaded through her hair, applying the medicine. If I saw a bug, I picked it off and put it into the toilet. I imitated my mother’s movements as much as I could, but my fingers were clumsy. Several times she clicked her tongue in disapproval, “Put the medicine everywhere,” she said in Arabic, “Don’t be so gentle.” She pressed my fingers against her scalp. “Binty, like this.” I was afraid to hurt her. It surprised me to find gray strands in the center of her head. She told me that we gray early in the family. I hadn’t thought of age, or that my mother aged. I imagined myself forty. I imagined myself standing above her and brushing her fine hair when she became old. I didn’t like that image, so I made myself forget it. I wanted to freeze time. I kept on going, strand by strand, until I was done, the bathroom door closed against the world.