How do you define an ordinary day? The clouds are tinged with shades of yellow and gray, and march slowly against the blue backdrop of the sky. Ordinary. The sea waves carry the smell of summer girls in sun-drenched sweat. Ordinary.

The gray-gold sand tap-tap-tap dances on coarse little feet beneath my bare calves. Ordinary.

My big brother Jack shares more than just a plate of chips with me, our eyes squinting against the blinding afternoon sun. We laugh, trade jokes and give each other hearty slaps. We act how brothers should. Like brothers. Unusual.

Mother comes our way, calling out to Jack, telling him to please not forget to bring the plate and cups back like last time.

The smile lines on her face quiver in place, as she stiffly instructs Jack to not stay out in the sun too long; Jack has a history of being prone to sun strokes. She manages to ignore the apologetic smile I offer her, and with her curls, still a radiant black with the help of henna, tumbling between the blades of her shoulders, she shuffles back towards the car.

Mother is old poetry, her every form is made up of double entendres, yet she stays most beautiful. My gaze lingers at her stooped retreating form, my lips in a faint trace of the peace offering that went unnoticed.

Jack stuffs his face with a fistful of the salty thin chips, munch-munch-munching noisily.

"Hey, have some more," he offers, pushing the plate in my direction. He slurps in his drink like no one else could. My waning smile breaks into a grin as I push the proffered plate of chips back towards him, before it fades again as I turn to watch mother nap, a silhouette behind heavily tinted car glass windows.

"She hates me still, eh?" I mutter with a sigh.

Jack smacks me on the head. A loud, clapping slap that rings from the back of my head, which goes out of one ear into another. Jack plays tennis, although not professionally, so he knows how to manipulate a swing. Heck, even without all that arm training, his blows would still strike hard.

"F***, man!" I cringe, both my hands (too late now) shield the back of my head from any further blows. I throw Jack a what-the-hell-did-you-do-that-for look, but I knew I had it coming.

This is how we communicate, both Jack and I, both stingy with speech, ever since we were still in diapers.

He would smack a brick toy on my head as a request for the doll I was holding, and I, in compliance would throw it to his face, the resin doll head thudding dully on his nose, sometimes causing it to bleed a little. We would then continue playing, no harm done.

We never cried. Well, not as children.

We sit together in silence. Jack grabs another handful of chips, his strong masculine jaws set on a grinding motion, and his stubble, wet from the drink, reflects little drops of sunlight and with every movement creating little rainbow arches.

I nurse my smarting head with a sulk. Both of us stare absently towards the sea, its waves leaving behind thick white foams to dissipate on its own.

I close my eyes, letting in the soothing sound of creeping waves mingle with the thuds of my throbbing head. Enjoy the pain while it lasts, whispers the masochist in me. This causes me to grin, my right shoulder twitching in unison.

Jack must have noticed my idiotic expression for he snorted out a laugh, which turned into a choke. I open an eye to see carbonated drink spurting from his nose. The rivulets of dark cola flow back into his mouth, causing him to exclaim loudly, "Urgh! Yuck!"

I slap him hard on the back. Once. Twice. And an extra hard third one, just to get even. Still coughing out little whoop sounds, Jack grabs my hand from his back and embraces me in a bear hug, giving me another double dose of noogie.

I struggle in his arms and reach out with long, slender fingers to tickle his hips, getting him at his weakest point. Jack lets go of my head, pleading for me to stop. I don't, not until he gasps for air, his face red like an overinflated balloon. We laugh hard and roll in the sand.

Jack's laughter is thick and gruff and comes out as hearty how-how-how sounds. I don't have the confidence to guffaw in public, satisfied with only letting out suppressed snickers, but I laugh my loudest with Jack.

"Bells," was Jack's first intelligible word between the hoohs and haahs.

Clear was the pronunciation, but the meaning behind his choice of word stayed unclear. My facial expression might as well have been composed of question marks.

"What?"

"Your laughter. It always reminds me of bells. The music box ones, not the churches. You know, you should laugh more."

He takes in a deep breath and lets out a loud whoosh of air. We were still on our backs. I guess both of us have our eyes closed against the rays of the sun, taking in the sweet feminine smell of the sea. "So, you have a girl you're steady with?"

I wasn't startled by the suddenness of the question, because I know he had been aching to ask me. The surprise was his nonchalance in addressing it.

I turn my head, my eyes squint to steal a look at his expression. I am caught peeking, as his left arm is propping up his head, his body already swiveled in my direction, staring at me.

He isn't scrutinizing me. Instead, he has a concerned look. A big brother look. Flustered, I quickly turn the other way.

"Uh, no. Why?" My eyes are already wide open.

From my point of view, there is only an immense emptiness made up of sand dunes and clear blue skies. The beach, close to the highway, but secluded by coconut palms that grow thickly together and sharp bramble bushes is not a favorite among the tourists.

There are no stalls selling food and drinks nearby, and if you dig as hard you can, you won't find anything save a few buckets of sea trash.

The currents are too strong and wild for anyone to swim. It isn't a very good beach, yet its sense of abandon is what attracts our little family to stop by every time we pass by the long, dull street.

Father was a family man through and through, who valued family privacy highly, and he loved the seaside, this spot in particular, for said reasons.

When he was still here, he would squat over the sand dunes, accompanying mother who couldn't stand the heat and who chose to stay in the car, only her feet sticking out. He watched his children chase each other across vast acres of grainy sand. He would sometimes run with us to the edge of the water, holding our hands firmly, and together we soaked our feet in the white-grey foams.

Taking great care to ensure none of us inched any closer towards danger. He taught us to dig into the wet sand with our feet, planting them in for a steadier stance.

Jack resembles father a lot. If father were still here, he would have probably asked me the same question Jack did. Jack's response was a simple "Oh." Father probably would have replied the same, too.

I waited for the lecture of repentance, but it didn't come. You see, Jack caught me locked in an embrace with a school friend of mine a few weeks ago and it wasn't sisterly.

To make matters worse, mother followed suit with a cake decorated with twenty lighted candles, which in an instant dropped *splat' on the floor in her shock. Luckily a fire didn't catch. Unluckily, stupid moi forgot it was my birthday. I was stupid enough to not make sure that the room key was turned right.

The waves are starting to increase their tempo, the crashing sound growing louder in my ears, drowning even the sounds of our breaths. The clouds began to thicken, multiple little fluffs rolling into one giant grey blob.

"You shouldn't think badly of her. I can't promise that it'll be any better, but she is mother," said Jack.

"But I haven't changed, have I? I'm still Jamie."

"Aye and that be the thing she resents most," replies Jack solemnly.

I shift into a sitting position. Jack follows suit, albeit sluggishly. I throw him a quizzical look. He smiles his maddeningly charming lopsided halfhearted sneer, which I have time and again tried to emulate with no success.

Instead of the usual mischief, this time his eyes twinkle with a trace of sadness.

"She thought, hell, we all thought, you being a tomboy was just a phase." A pause. "Mother gave you that nickname, Jamie. I think she blames herself for not calling you Jamillah from the start."

Every name is a prayer. I remember watching a religious debate concerning good parenting on TV with mother.

One of the forum guests explained something to that effect, and we joked about how Jack and I could be originally named in Arabic yet be called by Western names. Mother laughed the loudest and surrendered herself guilty. That was a few years back. I remember laughing along.

The clouds gang up against the sun, blocking his rays from reaching land. The sand, despite the lack of light, glows like silvery specter around our ankles.

Jack and I collect the plates and cups and throw what little is left of the food into a small hole he dug. "For the birds and fishes, and dogs and crabs," had said father, and which ever since became our ritual.

We rinse the plates and cups in the shallow part of the water. The sea and its waves do not scare us so much now, but still we plant our feet deep into the sands.

We climb back into the car with as little noise as we can manage as mother naps in the backseat serenely. She sleeps erect and proud, a lady in every aspect of her life. I can't hate her no matter how hard I try, and I know she is incapable of hate. Like Jack said, she is mother.

We continue the drive towards our grandparents' house in a downpour. The engine of the car hums in symphony with the tap-tap-tapping of the rain on the windows. Jack is drowned in the music from his iPod as he steers the car confidently. I stare absently at the grey slate in front of me until I, too, eventually fall asleep. In my dream is a song:

Every name a prayer,

With every intention good,

In every heart a lover,

Even when they don't think you should.

Every name a prayer,

With good intentions the same,

And as your love transcends forever,

My prayer is your name.

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