she hasn't seen her daughter for eight years.
life is a temple built on fears,
for some.
for others it is
a wasted opportunity.
noisy pleasure
that yells and kicks and screams:
there should be more to life.
more than simply this?
but here it is.
a woman was once somebody's child
her mother left one day
while she had asked her to stay.
mother now waits for her.
she is afraid.
fear,
my dear,
is silent.
Two women had an argument today, right outside school. In the middle of the street, just like that. One hippy-looking lady and another dark-haired upper class looking lady. I have noticed them many times before. Some people somehow naturally draw attention. These two women both do.
And now these two women were raising their voices at each other. They had just dropped off their kids. Some older school kids were still outside as they were on duty (they are to make sure cars don't park on pavements and bikes aren't dropped against people's homes). They were watching the women from the other side of the street, at a safe distance. Their mouths fell open, their eyes almost popped out of their heads.
After the women left (in opposite directions hollering "I'm going to be late for ehm... well... late!" , "and so am I!") I asked the kids on duty, "what happened?" The kids stood noticeably close to each other. They almost burst into tears when I asked them this, that's how unnerved they were by the argument they witnessed. It surprised me. These kids must have been exposed to fights or anger before in their lives. I mean, they were ten years old! I thought they'd giggle: silly grown-ups. Haha. But no.
Apparently, there's something deeply terrifying about grown-ups that lose control.
Off she goes. To Mecca. Her girls wear jeans and sneakers, while she wears a white Pakistani dress. It is a soft cotton with tiny embroidered flowers on it. Her silk veil is in pastel colours. It is the first time I have seen her tuck her hair away completely. She fidgets with it, keeps pulling it and even over her forehead, behind her ears.
"My feet are shaking" she says. So I hold her. The girls smile radiantly at me, and watch their mother somewhat curiously.
"Are you excited?" I ask them. "Yes," says the elder of the two, "we will be staying with family. And we're going on an aeroplane!"
"That's lovely," I say and I promise my neighbour I will take good care of their home. Does her phone work in Mecca? She nods.
"Have a good time," and I wonder about whether there's a better word to use, "a spiritual time?" I find myself wanting to say things like, 'God bless you', and 'may God be with you'. But I'm not religious and I wasn't planning to suddenly start believing. So instead I add, "be safe."
She takes my hands, in that endearing way of hers. Her own hands are both cold an warm, her pupils are big, black, fearful blotches.
"For whom must I pray?" she asks. Next she opens her hands in the form of a book and humbly bows her head. I immediately know and say, "please pray for (I am not mentioning any names because that's between me and her God, whoever he may be. And god do I suddenly desire for God to exist.)"
"Thank you," I whisper. My eyes are damp as she turns to leave. Her girls follow her on either side. Pray, dear neighbour, pray. I so hope your God listens. One last thing though: instead of praying for the child that is growing in you to be a baby boy, pray for its health and yours, regardless the sex.
The smallest of the two girls suddenly turns and runs back to me, "I am going to pray for a baby brother!" she hugs my thighs. I smile and gently kiss her head. Off they go.
She cleans her room. Messy as it is, she simply replaces one pile of stuff with another one.
There, she thinks. All done.
While relocating things her mind is working like a sive. It filters this and that, reminds her to pay a bill, or to call after tickets for next season's theatre - she can, if she wants, be on time. This time.
She is too late for many other things. Dates have passed. Moments have gone lost. Like the one on that specific card. It is a very small card with a cartoon-style design of a big, huge belly. There is a baby in that belly, but the card says the baby has come out. Yes of course she was going to visit the baby straight away! Wasn't she one of the people who had received a text message announcing the birth of Adam?
But then she moved house, and the card moved with her, she tucked it away in a to-do stack. One of the many stacks of papers and shells and hair-clips and tissues and invites and work-related paper stuff and forms to fill and pencils to sharpen
She could throw the card away because it's too late now. Much too late. Instead, she shifts it from one pile to the next. As if somehow hoping time had not passed.
Goodnight, my dear.
You are no longer here.
And will I ever be as free as the voice in my mind that whispers?
A breeze over an ocean of memories
lent to me by the passing of time
demands knowing who to address,
belong to,
caress.
And who comes last?
My dear.
Neither here, nor there.
"Those aren't mice," he says, "those are rats."
He closes his bag, the one that looks like a tool kit. You'd think he is a handy man, but he is the mice pest controller.
"Oh no!"
"Not to worry. All taken care of."
I sigh, "have some coffee. Please, have a seat."
"Only a minute then. I have loads of work to get done before my trip to Florida."
"Florida, wow. Holiday?"
"My daughter lives there."
"She works there?"
"No, she's 17."
I nod. This is what people do. Even when we don't fully understand a given situation, we nod. Usually we leave it at that. Sometimes we ask another question, such as: "did you live there too then?"
This time he nods.
"Yes, for two years. With her and my ex-wife."
He takes a sip of his coffee. Then holds the cup with both hands as if bracing himself to explain:
"My ex wife and I separated 7 years ago. Then my ex moved to Florida with my daughter."
"And you wanted to be closer to your daughter?"
"No. My ex got leukemia, see. So they some support. I lived in their basement."
I feel my chest getting heavier.
"She died. My ex died. And then I moved back."
"When was this?"
"Two years ago. We decided it was better for my daughter to stay with her stepfather."
"That's hard."
He has been looking at me all this time without batting an eyelid. His eyes are deep-set and heavy.
"You get used to it. My brother died last year. Heart attack. It runs in the family. My dad died at age 44."
I wonder about his age.
"I'm 47," he offers, without me asking this time. Then he gets up.
"Thanks for the coffee."
I stand up too. He picks up his tool box and leaves my house without looking back.
