Though she has never admitted it, but it was one of her healing rituals to go to the meadow with her father. When she was little, she hated going to the meadow because that meant lots of field work, and she only wanted to play. But sometimes she loved working, only when all her siblings came, then it was fun. Now she goes to the meadow whenever she has the chance. There, on the mouth of the hill, an old house that her great great grandfather has built, stands. It is resilient and the old brick stones are old and beautiful. Her village, no more a village but a city in its population and a village in its public services, is sprawled on the other side of the hill. So she escapes the traffic, climbs the hill and descends to the meadow where everything is toned with the infinite (except for the new neighbor who has set up a TV satellite on their door to get a signal).
It was another dull evening when she witnessed the sublime: she was helping her dad to clean the yard in front of the old house. The house is a square building in front of it lies a flagstone path that leads to the gate, and on the right there’s a well. There are recently-planted small trees, mainly citrus. In addition, her dad has planted mint, sage, and rosemary. It smells phenomenal.
Their neighbors have a huge, pink bougainvillea tree that sneaks from the other side of the wall and drops its heavy branches on their yard, and it sheds lots of petals. They were cleaning the leaves and dry petals when it passed her: the unnoticed beauty being noticed. She was hunched over opening the bag for her dad to sift the dry leaves, when the wind blew and the leaves whirled and swirled in the air; as if in a heavenly dance. At that moment she felt her heart filled with contentment. It seemed to her that she was full of life, and she can die peacefully now, it lasted few seconds and she wanted to share that with someone or anyone, but she opted for the poetic silence: that silence that remains in her, like a lump in the throat until it is written down. So here’s the poem
in the space of the air-
between every petal and a leaf:
there is an opening to another dimension of being
dark and light
it opens to an overwhelming feeling:
of the heart dropping from a cliff
to the mind’s epiphanic moment
of realizing the here and now
it was a flicker
a passage
nothing more than a mundane moment in a mundane day
(maybe I’m overreacting?)
but it was real
and it was infinite.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 