Poison

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. 

A Whisper

On a gloomy day, Pamplona, Spain. Dec, 2011.

Shhh… Your whisper is too loud.

Don’t disrupt this peace.

Don’t speak.

Your words are young; they’re weak. They fall from your lips— fledglings, ambitious and too sure; they haven’t learned to fly. They could’ve soared the sky and reached higher than any other of their kind.

Don’t speak.

I cannot understand your meaning, cannot see the sense in all those sounds. Somehow, something tells me it is beautiful—that which you are saying. But instead of smiling, enjoying this piece of art, it makes me angry. I think I heard it all before. Somewhere… in party or a fancy concert hall.

Don’t speak.

Your voice is like autumn wind—confused, whether to say goodbye to Summer or greet the Winter that’s ahead. When I feel it, it shakes me, ever so slightly, but just enough to break my leaves… and then I’ll find myself standing on a golden carpet, afraid to take a step, afraid to crush those dreams.

Shhh… Don’t speak.

They are just words—so helpless. The past has gone; it’s naïve to think that you can change it. The future is not ours; it’s arrogant to think that you can have it. And the present… that’s just what is now, this very moment.

No, don’t speak.

Don’t disrupt this peace.

Just listen… can you hear it?

Can you hear that little giggle? Sounds like a child, playing in the field. She runs around in circles, her arms spread wide from side to side, to help her leave the ground and reach the worlds she built. 

Can you hear it?

There’s no one else. No one to hold her down, to force her into some other world, one that she didn’t build herself.

So tell me, can you hear it?

No, don’t answer.

Shhh… Don’t speak.

Don’t whisper.

Don’t disrupt my peace.

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...  ^.^

~~~
~~
~