#3

A moonlight bathed courtyard
I felt it wash my skin
The silence rushed my ears
Like a tornado
Alone, as I drank it in.

Solitary, I danced as if to call it It’s mirthful draught gave zest
It caressed my face
Left my soul without rest.

And still I twirled and leapt
Till she was gone and far away
Left distrait and inebriate
Fearless to the crimson war cry
Of the coming day.

Thoughts.

Image

I’ve been thinking about this all day, from the moment I woke up. Internal reflection, as well as these endless hours of thinking have proved useless, as I am, for once, left without words to describe how I feel. I can’t seem to find words that fit, quotes that fit. Yet I feel the occasion should be marked.

Today marks the second anniversary since I last set foot on Irish soil, since I left the land of my birth and most of my childhood. Having spent most of my teenage summers in Pakistan beforehand, the packing and travelling seemed routine. But 2011 was different. Altogether more permanent. Dread, disdain, excitement and sadness manifested me that summer.

I only remember fragments of that day. The last glimpse we had of our house, as we drove away. Watching the clouds, the farms and the cows go by. The airport. I was numb most of that day. We boarded, buckled up and soon it was time for take off. My head was turned towards the window.  It wasn’t until the plane was at a 45 degree angle to the ground that it struck me. The plotted land, in it’s different squares of different shades of green was ever-receding, but I kept my eyes glued to the window as if to drink every last drop of the sight, as much as I could, for as long as I could. I was leaving. I was leaving, almost permanently and it wouldn’t be quite the same if I ever came back.  The tears were uncontrollable.

I don’t know how I feel, anymore, because maybe I feel too much.

That was a chapter of my life that has now closed, so surreal, it seemed like it was just a dream. Things have changed since. I have changed. I’m no longer that same person. But this was inevitable. Life goes on; only thing it knows to do, as do we with it.

Rinne sí dearmad orm, ach tá Éire fós i mo chroí, cé go bhfuil mé fada uaidh.

Working The Room

From the moment she entered, all I could think was: Baby, you know how to work a room. Well-dressed, maybe not by the norms of the current fashion, she was sported a closely cropped hairstyle, capri pants and a peplum style mint green top. All eyes were on her and that was the way she loved it.

She was loud, brash even, yet somehow still nonchalant. Her captivating attitude drew everyone towards her. She had a way of interacting with everyone in the room, making each feel special, individually. I’m almost envious of this gravitational force she seems to have around her. When she, tossing back her head carelessly, would laugh unreserved, those around her couldn’t help but smile too.

One moment, during the evening, she was sipping from a glass of water. Something must have irked her, for with a swift movement of her hand and a shriek, she knocked the glass off the table. We stared, shocked, and she, suddenly conscious of the attention, broke out into a nervous laugh. Order was restored. Everybody merely laughed it off. I honestly don’t think my social skills could match hers. Her smile was reserved for few, but her good humour impressed all.

When her uncle took a picture of her with his phone from across the room, she turned to see where the flash came from. Confused at first, her face soon brightened. She rushed over, chuckling, snatching the phone from his hand, to see the picture. After a mere glance at it, she traced an indecipherable pattern on the touch screen and put it to her ear. Whatever it was she heard she didn’t like, because she removed it from her ear and proceeded…

…to put it in her mouth.

I still couldn’t take my eyes off her; stream of drool dribbling down her face glistened. I thought: Damn, it must be amazing to be one year old. Everybody thinks you’re adorable. The main occupation of your time is playing, eating, sleeping and soiling your nappy. No worries about the future. Not yet, anyway. The good life.

Her mother carried her out, she wailing at the top of her lungs, as she had absent-mindedly smacked herself in the face with the phone. I was still in awe.