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| Photo by Asyah Saif |
With scrolls of history and experience in one hand and a suitcase of remedies in the other, she walked down the hidden path, through an explosion of life and green and yellow and purple. This forest has not been explored before; this path never walked on, although it was laid in preparation for such a voyage, in anticipation, as a precaution. The trees rose high and the branches bowed low. The leaves whispered of passion and the breeze stole their words, teasing, laughing. Insects knew each other's names but kept forgetting they were different.
Amidst the festival of colours and sounds, there stood a house. Stood, in the past. Now, there were just ruins, broken walls, the remains of chairs and tables, the memory of playful curtains and beautiful carpets. A storm came, and her little girl didn't have the time to prepare, to hide. It came from above, and she was too busy watching the sun blinding her senses. It came and never stayed. It left, forgetting that it was leaving behind a soul young and free to build its dreams.
She stood in front of what her daughter now lived in. Considering her understanding of beauty--and this entitled peace, harmony and a pinch of conservatism--it looked hideous. There was no clear structure, no premeditated foundation, no logical plan. It seemed as though, if a hand pressed against one of its walls, it would fall and crumble into dust; yet, it was strong, strong and powerful, pushing back at the hand pressing against it. It looked nothing like a normal, traditional house. It seemed as though a four-year-old was handed building blocks and failed at stacking them up. It rose high, with many floors, all of different heights and different widths, with a spiral staircase running up and down, making her dizzy by simply looking at it. And the colour! That horrid, bright orange colour! She could almost hear it laugh, and she didn't like that. It had to be humble--a smile, at most. She also couldn't understand the need for so many windows. There was no privacy in it, no secret. Everyone could see the crazy hurricane of a decor inside, and all the paintings seemed to peer outside, living life from a distance, yet living it fully.
Two little feet ran down the spiral--almost flew, even--and, in a blink of an eye, there stood her daughter, arms open, inviting for a hug.
"What are you doing with this place?" the mother asked.
"I'm still not done!" her daughter replied. "There's still so much work! So many things I could do!"
"Why not just build a normal house?" the mother asked.
"This is a normal home," her daughter replied. "It's a different house."
The mother knew there was no use arguing, no use telling of what a normal house should look like. Her daughter invited her inside, but she preferred to keep her distance; after all, the feeble-looking structure did not inspire any trust. Instead, she sat by a picnic table--painted the same orange--and started unpacking her suitcase.
They talked and laughed, and soon, the insanity of colours blended into the background, leaving nothing but a trace of laughter in the air. They sipped herbal tea and the mother put some remedies on her daughter's cuts, her blisters, her bruises and her scars. The scars wouldn't go away, neither did they hurt. But they had to be treated as well, for it wasn't fair to leave them out, to forget about them.
Suddenly, something bright shot through the air. Taken aback, the mother looked around, only after several moments realizing that the shimmer came from her daughter, or more precisely, something her daughter was wearing.
Under her shirt and close to her heart, there lay a pendant, soothing cold against warm skin. The mother pulled the string, the pendant slowly leaving its sacred nest and appearing in her hand. To her own horror, she was holding a tiny, dark blue bottle. Half-empty.
"This is poison!" she shouted.
"I know," her daughter said, taking the bottle back. She put it under her shirt, close to her heart, where it belonged.
"What are you doing? Child, you know it's poison!"
"Yes, poison," the daughter repeated. "This poison is the only thing keeping me alive."
"I'll bring more remedies! I'll make stronger potions! I'll come more often, and we'll--"
The daughter didn't answer. She just shook her head, a smile on her face--not happy, not sad. Alive.
They sat in silence for a while, just their feelings conversing.
"Your eyes?"
"They see more than they could ever dream. They don't tire, they don't overwhelm. They see shapes as shapes and colours for only colours. They see places as places that are, and things for the things they are. They stopped glancing behind, watching the past dancing on its stage of memories. They stopped peering ahead, searching for what they have never seen, something that has not yet become the now."
"Your ears?"
"They hear! They hear it all! They hear the sound of a smile, that of a frown. They hear the words for what they mean and what they hide. They hear the words when they are too shy. But, most fascinatingly, they hear nothing when nothing is there.They make no more stories, tell no more tales. They just listen; they hear."
"Smell? And taste?"
"They, too, can only do what they are meant to. They smell and taste nothing but what is. They don't add from the past and keep for the future. They enjoy the moment, live it, and then move on, letting me own the memories, not them."
"Your heart?"
"It beats; it's steady, calm, yet crazy, wild, and sometimes races and forgets it can only go so fast."
"It will tire."
"It will; it should. If it doesn't tire, it means it never ran, it never tried and never knew what it is to tire."
"It will hurt."
"It will; it did already. It stopped, looked around, frantic, scared. That's when it hurt--not because it was in pain, but because it was alone. Then it found the beat, it heard it and ran again."
"It will hurt."
"It will. But not because it was abandoned, not because it was left alone. It will hurt because the beat will now be far, the melody fainter."
"It will hurt."
"It will, and I will cherish the song it wrote, the melody it shall never forget. I might not be able to dance to it, but I will sway. Then there will be another composer, another beat, a different song."
Putting one hand to her chest and the other on the table, the daughter tapped her fingers. Tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. The mother, soon, put her hand to her chest as well. She could hear it too. The beat. Not her daughter's. Not hers. Just the beat. The faint melodies she, herself, held in her heart, but almost forgot about.
