The Calm After a Storm

Photo taken when on the way from Edmonton to Calgary. Winter, 2010.

*Inspired by a flamenco concert by Isabel Pantoja.*

What happened, child, that you come to me in such an hour?

Why hold my hand as though it is some anchor,

holding you from falling into dreams of what had been, what could have…

Why ask me to sing the words that put a child to sleep?

What shook you so and made you tear and cry and weep?

Oh, mother, if you knew, how careless, stupid, childish I have been!

You know the storm? The one you told me of, the likes of which you’ve seen?

The storm that others talk about, warn, alert, and even hanker for? The one that is not sudden… sneaky though. It’s warm, rapid and destructive. And yet… so warm… so warm…

My little girl, what have you done?

  

Not much, mother, so very little.

And yet I wish I had done more… much more… much more.

My little girl, what have you done?

All I did was leave the door unlocked, not open.

I didn’t know that it was coming, but do you ever know? Do you?

And then it swept into my house, across the floors and through the walls…

The walls? The walls we built together?

Yes, the walls! Oh mother, they were weak! So weak! They shook at first; I thought they would stand the challenge, but then they trembled… trembled… trembled… then they shattered into dust.

But then… the ceiling?!

Oh no, that didn’t happen. It didn’t shatter, didn’t fall. Maybe now there is a crack or two, or maybe more. But I ran away, I left, I let it go… or so I think… so I think.

My little girl, what have you done?

I know, I left my home… but was it really mine, after the storm took away all that meant a memory or had a soul? But then again… while it crushed my vases and rumpled through my clothes, my sheets… I watched it. I watched… and it was breathtaking, breathtaking, breathtaking.

Oh my little girl, you were swept away as well…

Yes, I was. I didn’t even notice, couldn’t, didn’t have the time to see, how it lifted me, tossed me into the air. I thought that I was flying, for a moment, even less, but really, I was simply falling. Yes, I fell… I fell. I fell.

But now it’s gone?

Yes, it is. It’s gone… it’s gone.

Oh my little girl, surely you must’ve known that it wouldn’t last…

Oh I knew, I knew…

Did you forget?

I wish I could say yes, that I forgot, that, in all the commotion, all the noise, I simply didn’t notice. But I did… I noticed. I did not forget. But with the dust of broken walls, through the teary image in my eyes, I saw a little glimpse of hope. It turned the storm into an everlasting tempest. Everlasting, endless and undying… And for a moment—brief, pathetic—I thought that it would last.

Will you go back?

To my home? I see no reason.

Will you fix it, or attempt to?

That which was destroyed? There is no point.

Don’t loose yourself, my darling. Don’t let one broken house be your broken home. You can fix it if you want, or you can start anew. New floors, new cupboards, chairs and tables. New vases. New lamps, brighter than before. And new walls, but this time, you will build them on your own.

My own? You will not help me? You will not—

—Only walls built by you can protect you from another storm… or even, if perhaps, the same returns some other day, knocking on your door.

Coloured-Pencil Drawing

A. Saif. 11-11-2011

Battlefield

In Versailles Gardens. Photo by Asyah Saif

Build me a house.

Let there be many windows, so that I can watch the sky. I want to see the sun when it awakens. I want to witness the battle with the dark, spilling blood across the mountains, bringing light into this world.

Let there be many windows, so that I can watch the sun, defeated, spilling blood across the ocean as it sinks into the dark. I want to see the little candles come to life. I want to see the moon, her face behind the veil, revealing more of her secrets every night.

Build me a house with many windows, for I can only paint the battlefield if I see it with my own eyes.

.

Stories of Age: Molly's Help

Photo by Asyah Saif

“Help!” she shouts out, but nobody comes. “Help!” she shouts again… and again and again.

If you think she is alone or that there is no one to help her, you are mistaken. There are many. There are many around, many of those who can help… many of those who also need help. All the nurses are busy with other patients. All the nurses are busy with medication. All the nurses are busy looking at schedules, at charts. They are talking—only of important matters, of course. They are reading… also of important matters. And if they are not doing any of that… they are busy walking around the hallways. Everyone is busy, and that is why they don’t answer her calls.

Or maybe they are just afraid to tell her that there is nothing that can be done… maybe they’re afraid of not being able to answer her call for help when they are standing right there.

Is she hurt? Well, she is in pain. I would say so. Yes, she is hurt, but there is no wound. But then again… there could be.

“Why do I feel so terrible?” she asks me.

“I don’t know, Molly… I don’t know.”

“What can I do? I want to make it stop.”

“You’ll just have to wait. That’s all you can do. Wait and be strong… for a little longer.”

“Is there any use?”

“…I don’t know.”

And I, too, sometimes call the nurses. They find it easier to deal with me. After all, I am just a companion. It is easier for them to tell me that the pain will continue. It is easier for them to lie to me, saying that it will stop with time. And then I turn to Molly, her eyes wet with despair, and shake my head.

“We’ll just have to wait… and then, maybe, the pain will stop.”

“Okay,” she says. She puts her head back, closes her eyes, relaxes.

And soon, when I would have left already, she will be calling for help again.

If He's A Coward, I'm Taking The Lead!

A story from the past. My mom's narration.

 "I'm out of cigarettes." That's how it all started. Yes, I smoked in university, because it was cool and everyone did it back then. However, today is not about my unhealthy habits; today is about the crazy and brave ones.

My friend said she knew two guys that lived four floors down. They always had some goodies, cigarettes included, and good ones too! The expensive kind! So there we went, flip-flopping our way to second floor, inappropriately late at night.

The door was opened by a dark-skinned guy--probably an Arab. Inside the room, sat his roommate--definitely an Arab. You may not believe in love from first sigh, but GOD his eyes were the most beautiful ones I've ever seen! I also remember thinking to myself, "What an arrogant jerk!" He did greet us, but he didn't even look my way. Not once! He just sat there on his bed with some book in his hand, pretending to read.

Yeah, my poor roommate had to listen to my ohs-and-ahs about how handsome he was that night.

I don't know what it was, but I decided that I want that man in my life. So, I drew out a plan. I looked at the maps, set the dates, marked my positions. I prepared the weapons, poisoned the arrows and loaded the guns. I was prepared for war. I was prepared to win it.

I dressed up. I took my book. My papers. My notes. Destination: second floor.

There was a big sign on the door that day, saying: "Do not knock!"

I knocked.

He opened the door, clearly not amused.

"Why no knocking?" I asked seriously. He looked at me with blank eyes, his mouth open in confusion, unable to find any words. "I was  on my way to study, but I realized I forgot a pen."

Three lines formed between his eyebrows. I didn't care what he was thinking, because I had a plan, and as of then, everything was going according to that plan. He invited me in, found a pen and gave it to me. I stayed there and talked for a bit, then left.

I had a couple more of such visits--different reasons of course. Then, soon, as we got to know each other, he asked me out.

Cool part is, he told me later that he had seen me around campus before. He had seen me before I came to his room looking for cigarettes. He said he was taken aback when I walked in, hence the playing all cool and I-am-not-paying-attention-to-you attitude. The coward wouldn't have made a move if I haven't done anything first!

"I'm not a coward."

"Really now?"

"I... uh... fine. But I did think you were a bit insane, knocking on the door."

"And who puts such signs on doors?"

"Well..."


I do miss my random and oh-so-damn-cheesy conversations with my parents.

And I will try to be brave too...  ^.^

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Stories of Age: Nursing Home

Polly--Polina--always sat in the same chair, in the same room. I would sometimes stop by and sit with her, and, most of the time, there would be no talking. She would hold my hand, and I would hold her's back. Until one day, she spoke to me herself.

When I first came to Lillian J. Nursing Home, all I could see was old people smiling back at me. Several months later, I could see people who have lived through more than three folds my life, people that have experience all. Also, after several months, I actually knew them.

I knew why Mr Elberg didn't like to sit near windows. He would always flinch if a door was shut too hard, or if a chair was dragged across the floor. The worst, however, was when an airplane would thunder through the sky many miles above. He would flinch, clutch the chair's arms and vigorously shake his head, whispering something under his breath. 

I also knew why Allison repeated only one set of words, always nodding, smiling so kindly that you would think she understands your compliment or joke. She would never speak if not asked; she always listened. She listened to people, and the talkative ones loved talking to her, mainly because she never interrupted. As to her, she loved listening, because, although she couldn't understand, she felt less lonely that way, more alive.

I understood why Bob never answered when he was given a choice between coffee or tea--he would nod for tea, he would nod for coffee too. He did prefer coffee--you could tell by his childish smile--but he couldn't express himself, couldn't choose. 

The reason Margie always talked of death was simple: nobody she knew or loved was alive. "Why hasn't it taken me yet?" she would ask, "I have nothing here."

There was also Mr Dewitt and his crude comments, Violet and her depressing stories, Margie and her obsession with home medicine, Pat, always talking about his grandchild, and many others.

Polly talked very rarely. She just sat there, wherever we'd take her, and look at her lap. She loved talking to us, the younger nurses, but we couldn't understand her, because she spoke incomplete sentences with unrelated words. Soon, however, she would get frustrated, and sit there in silence. It got worse and she stopped talking, replying only if talked to first... Until that one day, when she spoke to me, and I could understand it all...

"I... I could do... but now... no... I used to... I used to know... I had..." Then she paused. She looked into my eyes, silent for another moment, and then asked, her voice calm and aware, "Why? Why me?"

And I sat there, looking into her eyes, seeing a beautiful mind that was going through its slow shutdown. 

Forever Beautiful

The sky looks down at McMinn Hillside Park and frowns at the silence and stillness of the trees. Then a wind blows, bringing life back into the world that has forgotten that it is still alive. A branch shakes, and a leaf, startled by the sudden movement, falls down. It is picked up by that wind and taken across the park. Suddenly, the wind stops, and the leaf starts falling down, slowly, towards another still object, just to startle her too and, maybe, bring life back.

There, in the middle of the empty park, sits a beautiful woman, holding a small leaf in her hand. First, she remembers some moments from her childhood, and she smiles. Then, she remembers her school and her friends, and the smile grows wider. Then she remembers her husband, her wedding, her first child, and she cries. She remembers her children, her house, and the tears dry on her face. She remembers the goodbyes and the tears, and the smile grows softer. She remembers her life.

"Hello Ruth," a familiar voice comes from nearby. 

Her eyes tell him that she knows him, that she remembers. He helps her up, and for a moment, he forgets that it will never last. 

They have dinner. They watch the news. It is late and sky is dark. Then she says, like always, "Excuse me, sir... You are not assuming you can spend the night here, are you?" Her voice is assertive and filled with pride. 

He wants to... but what does it matter what he wants to do? He knows it will not help, nor will he have the courage to confront the monster that has captured her memory. "Of course not," he says softly, standing up. He looks at her with a loving smile and then bows his head. He takes his coat and leaves the house. He enters through the back door and heads downstairs into the basement. He sits on his bed and cries. He always cries, even though he tells himself not to.

Meanwhile, upstairs, sits a beautiful woman with an empty glaze in her eyes. Like a withered rose, she is breathtaking in her beauty and heartbreaking in the sorrow surrounding her.