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"Jeddah, please. You must look at me."

Mother took my face in her gentle, frail hands, and looked at me with an intensity I didn't know she had in her. Her eyes moved slowly, taking in every detail of my face. She picked a strand of blue embroidery thread out of my knotted, messy hair, playing with it reverently. A thin, shaking finger traced over my eyebrows, touching the tip of my nose, wiping the tears from my eyes.

"My brave girl. You know what you must do now, little mother," she said, making a genuine effort to smile. This referenced the many months I had spent caring for her, helping her dress when she felt well enough to sew, bringing her sweet tea and broth in bed when she did not.

She was looking at me for the last time, and we both knew it, even though I was only an ignorant little girl of twelve. She was dying.

Then she transferred her attentions to my baby sister, Miarka, four years old and clinging anxiously to my skirts - already devoted to me, bless her loyal little heart. Mother took Miarka's thumb out of her mouth and handled her childish face with the same reverence as she had mine, stroking her short, fluffy hair affectionately.

Poor little Miarka. She didn't know what was happening. All she could understand was Mother was behaving very oddly. She had grown horribly thin during her illness, with a gaunt face and black shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep. Her hair had grown thin too, and although I tried my best every morning to brush it as carefully as I could it would not stop thinning and falling out, and so Mother often covered her head with a shawl.

When Mother tried to smile again, it was too much of an effort. She started to cough, terrifying, racking coughs that shook her entire body and made tears stream from her eyes. Miarka hid her face in my skirts, which upset Mother even more, and I stroked her heaving shoulders and whispered soothing words until she calmed down a little.

"My dear, sweet girls.... live on."

It was the last thing she ever said. She died that night, and secretly I was glad for her, because she wasn't suffering anymore. That awful illness practically tore her apart, and it was almost worse to see her living with constant torture than be at peace.

It affected Miarka worse than I. She was in despair for weeks, often bursting into tears randomly and taking fits of melancholy. I endured this for a while - she was, after all, only a baby - but at some stage I lost my temper. I shouted at her to get over it, to stop crying the whole time and making life difficult for everybody. We were the two of us shocked into silence - I had never in my life before shouted like that. It was not her fault – she should not bear the brunt of my anger and grief. Of course, I gathered the poor girl into my arms and apologised over and over, stroking her hair, silently hating myself.

The problem that we now had no adult in the household was solved quickly. The local women minded Miarka and I after Mother's funeral for a while, but they made it clear that this was only a temporary arrangement. Then Grandmother arrived.

She was our father's mother, but I had a suspicion she loved our mother more. Even when Father was alive, he wasn't home much, always travelling, and all I could remember of him were his eyes, which were so dark they were almost black. He could smile with those expressive eyes of his as well as any mouth. But he never got on with his mother, and one day they had a row so terrible she went back to her hometown, the neighbouring tribe of Pazghar.

The point, however, is that Mother was always her favourite. Grandmother always admired her kindness, her way of putting others before her even when she was on her deathbed. Mother was not a conventional beauty, but it was her expression that made her remarkable- it was always warm and welcoming with a friendly smile. Because Miarka and I resembled Mother in almost every way, apart from those expressive eyes inherited from our father, she doted on us and adored us every time she came to visit.

Grandmother came without warning, and I almost didn't recognise her. The sun was setting, and I was wearily trying to get Miarka into her nightdress. She had taken a fit of stubbornness and would not slip the simple cotton garment over her head no matter how much I begged, bribed, threatened, and argued.

Then there came a gentle knock on the weathered front door. We froze in fear.

When I recognised the woman standing in the doorway, however, I flew into her outstretched arms with a choked cry of delight. Mother was always my favourite also, but Grandmother held a special place in my heart. She was very dignified and proud, took absolutely no nonsense from anybody be they Ramyah or beggar, but she had a wonderful wicked sense of humour, and could coax a smile out of me in my bluest of moods. Miarka had only met her once, a year ago, but felt the same.

"Grandmother, how lovely of you to come to us! Mother is dead, you know," I said matter-of-factly. Being matter of fact, in my opinion, was better than moping around and snivelling, and it helped you get along with life much better. Miarka's lips quivered dangerously at my words, but I pinned a smile to my face, and she copied me. She was at that age where she would copy anything and everything I did. Most people would find this irritating, but I used it to my advantage. To my relief, she didn't cry.

"I heard the news, little ones, and I came as quickly as I could. Do not fret, we will stick together in this time – you are family, after all. Now, Miarka, put on your nightdress and climb into bed like a good girl - I will come along soon. Jeddah, stay here. We must talk."

This was what I loved most about Grandmother. She, like I, set great store in being matter of fact and, having taken in in our current state with one glance, had taken charge immediately. I was immensely relieved, as I felt there was only so much I could handle all at once and had felt the lack of guidance sorely. Grandmother had come to save us, and I was glad. Miarka slipped away obediently (I gaped at that, remembering her mood earlier) and I cleared my throat hesitantly.

"What are we going to do, Grandmother?" I asked in a rather small voice.

"You tell me," she answered simply, placing her little bundle of belongings on the floor, sinking into a chair. She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. I gave no answer, making patterns on the dusty floor with my grubby little bare toes. The silence stretched on until it became unbearable, and I was beginning to become angry. Grandmother had said she would help us. This wasn't help, for crying out loud.

"How should I know?" I snapped. Grandmother's eyebrows, it seemed, were in danger of disappearing entirely under her greying fringe that covered her delicately wrinkled forehead. I sighed.

"Fine. I can sew. But not as well as Mother! I'm twelve years old, nobody in their right mind would buy my childish needlework," I complained, casting a doubtful eye at the sample wall-hanging I was working on. I was trying to teach myself how to do tapestry work, but with no avail, since I hadn't a proper loom.

"Jeddah, have you looked at your work? I mean, properly looked at it without the criticising eye of the maker?"

This question was so unexpected that I took the wall-hanging from its place on the workbench, where it had stayed for the past week or so as I worked on it, becoming increasingly frustrated at my lack of progress. I took it to the window, and, shaking it out in the cool evening air, put myself in the mindset of one of the women I observed in the marketplace that had never sewed a stitch in their lives. I found the new point of view quite surprising.

"Oh my...."

I had sacrificed a length of soft, sky blue silk for this wall-hanging, and used different shades of deep yellow embroidery threads to create an image of sunlight and prosperity on the green, green grass and little daisies dotted here and there. I had to admit that while working on it, I hadn't paid much attention to the actual scene itself, and how effective it truly was. I had simply focused on the relatively minor inconveniences, such as the one time I ran out of a particular shade of green thread and had wasted precious money and several days of frustration trying to obtain another spool of the exact colour.

"Indeed," Grandmother nodded. "I have not much skill with the needle myself, but I know a good work when I see one. If I gave that beauty - don't look at me like that, of course it is - to one of the seamstresses I know from Pazghar and asked them to guess who made it, they would never in their wildest dreams think a mere twelve year old child. You severely underestimate your talent, girl. This might just be the answer to your problems."

"Why thank you, kind wall-hanging, for helping me with my problems."

"Don't give me that, child." Grandmother heaved herself out of her chair and clamped her hands onto my shoulders quite firmly. "You know what I mean. What did Talia say to you before she died, hmm?" I found my chin in her grip, her dark eyes reflecting mine.

"She said to live on. And I will try my best," I added reluctantly.

"You will not try," Grandmother almost hissed. "You will live on exactly like Talia told you to. Do not break faith, or your promise will be worthless. You are old enough to understand this by now. What will you do?"

Her words revolved around in my head, and I the more I thought about them the more I grew inspired by her passion. I pinned another smile to my face, this time genuine, with a hint of my previous wild spirit in it. Mother had once remarked that I was like Father in the way I rarely smiled, but when I did, it utterly transformed my otherwise plain face into something worth looking at. When she told me this I would smile more often, in an attempt to please her.

"I will live on! I will not break faith!" I cried.

"That's the spirit, my girl! Now, tomorrow morning you will work your hardest to finish that hanging and go to your mother's old stall. I saw it passing by- it is still there. I am becoming too old to accompany you, but I know you can do it alone. I know you can, and you will!"

Live on, Mother said, and that's exactly what I'll do.

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