ScarlO
09-04-2006, 14:44
She spent many days in bed. She stayed under the blanket, until the weight of the blanket seemed to be a burden on her soul. Her aunt had to drag her by the arm to the funeral and to see the mourners. Socialising, figured the aunt, might take off some of the weight this young girl had to carry on her fragile shoulders at such an age
The looks on the mourners' faces bothered her a great deal. They made her very nervous. She couldn't even have the comfort of crying; they were all looking at her. Her tears slid from her eyes down on her cheeks (the very cheeks that her mother pinched, not just to show affection, but out of anger too) on the occasion of seeing some familiar faces. When sighting certain people, close friends of her mother, she was more than once urged to fling her body in their arms and sob her way to relief. It was in her bed, though, that she cried the most. She wore the blue blouse that her mother bought her: the blouse she hated the most, and the very same blouse that she loves so much now. The clock's tick-tock was ear-bashing. Everything was loud in her ear -- even silence
The phone rang, and she had to remind herself that it was not her mother calling to ask what flavour she wanted for her milkshake, or calling to check on her or ask what kids' meal she wanted for dinner. The ringing went on for quite a while. When it stopped, she rolled to her side, looking out the window. It was almost sun set. She had to remind herself again that her mother was dead. Mom is not going to open the door and hand me a chocolate bar to eat while she checks my homework. I don't even have homework. I haven't gone to school for two days now. She is not going to take me grocery shopping. She is not going to ask me to mix the dough for her, or oil the pan or keep an eye on the phone as she showers. She is not going to talk to me again, because she's dead
She left the room, walking through the dark hallway to the living room. There, her father lay on the sofa, his dishdasha placed neatly on an armchair, where his ghetra and 3gal also were. He hasn't slept in his room. He avoided entering his room during those days. He slept on the sofa and, if entering the room when forced, left quickly. She missed him so much. She needed him now more than she ever did. But he was distant. Far away, not paying attention to her or to anyone. The death of her mother changed him so much. She looked at his relaxed face, listened to his barely audible snoring, and for some reason the tears rose in her throat. She tried to swallow them, failed, turned around and ran to the toilet. She turned the faucet, splashed handfuls of water on her face and buried it in the towel. When she looked up at the mirror, she paused -- her eyes fixed on her features, seeing something beyond what's in the mirror. She released the tears in her eyes again, feeling their heat, their fast movement on her face.The corner of her mouth crooked a tiny bit, forming what looked like a smile on her lips. And then she started to sob loudly
*****
I still have your picture with me. I do not look at it... I just keep it to reassure myself that if, for a moment, I forgot the outline of your face, your eyes, your lashes, your nose, your smile, your jaw, or your lips. If I ever become unable, for less than a second, to conjure you, I'll go back to my bookshelves, search for the envelope that holds you picture among my books. And there, I'll find you smiling your breathtaking smile at me
The looks on the mourners' faces bothered her a great deal. They made her very nervous. She couldn't even have the comfort of crying; they were all looking at her. Her tears slid from her eyes down on her cheeks (the very cheeks that her mother pinched, not just to show affection, but out of anger too) on the occasion of seeing some familiar faces. When sighting certain people, close friends of her mother, she was more than once urged to fling her body in their arms and sob her way to relief. It was in her bed, though, that she cried the most. She wore the blue blouse that her mother bought her: the blouse she hated the most, and the very same blouse that she loves so much now. The clock's tick-tock was ear-bashing. Everything was loud in her ear -- even silence
The phone rang, and she had to remind herself that it was not her mother calling to ask what flavour she wanted for her milkshake, or calling to check on her or ask what kids' meal she wanted for dinner. The ringing went on for quite a while. When it stopped, she rolled to her side, looking out the window. It was almost sun set. She had to remind herself again that her mother was dead. Mom is not going to open the door and hand me a chocolate bar to eat while she checks my homework. I don't even have homework. I haven't gone to school for two days now. She is not going to take me grocery shopping. She is not going to ask me to mix the dough for her, or oil the pan or keep an eye on the phone as she showers. She is not going to talk to me again, because she's dead
She left the room, walking through the dark hallway to the living room. There, her father lay on the sofa, his dishdasha placed neatly on an armchair, where his ghetra and 3gal also were. He hasn't slept in his room. He avoided entering his room during those days. He slept on the sofa and, if entering the room when forced, left quickly. She missed him so much. She needed him now more than she ever did. But he was distant. Far away, not paying attention to her or to anyone. The death of her mother changed him so much. She looked at his relaxed face, listened to his barely audible snoring, and for some reason the tears rose in her throat. She tried to swallow them, failed, turned around and ran to the toilet. She turned the faucet, splashed handfuls of water on her face and buried it in the towel. When she looked up at the mirror, she paused -- her eyes fixed on her features, seeing something beyond what's in the mirror. She released the tears in her eyes again, feeling their heat, their fast movement on her face.The corner of her mouth crooked a tiny bit, forming what looked like a smile on her lips. And then she started to sob loudly
*****
I still have your picture with me. I do not look at it... I just keep it to reassure myself that if, for a moment, I forgot the outline of your face, your eyes, your lashes, your nose, your smile, your jaw, or your lips. If I ever become unable, for less than a second, to conjure you, I'll go back to my bookshelves, search for the envelope that holds you picture among my books. And there, I'll find you smiling your breathtaking smile at me