Prose: All things are quite silent

What a strange feeling, to travel during grief. simultaneously wide-eyed and tired of it all, walking around the airport aimlessly waiting for gate information. 

Why should I stay there?

Mothers. Mothers everywhere, I'm phantom. Toddlers with their Arab mums and nannies, GUCCI spelled out on their jumpers. They don’t know how expensive it was so yoghurt is spilt on it anyways. Mothers with husbands, mothers with eye bags. Mexican grandmothers holding ill children, stroking their hands while they sleep. 

I have noticed lately, in waiting rooms or on buses, trains and planes, babies catch my eye and engage with me. I pull faces, blink away the tears. So what if my own flew away, maybe my womb was too cold or something. But here, now, these children of strangers offer me solace with both tiny hands. They pull faces at me! They blink and smile, turn away then look at me again! How do they know my loss? This is the sweetness of infants, they are more connected to the divine, their innocence  akin to godliness. 

At the airport, day before my departure I found myself watching this Indo-English family. Two young girls, the smaller one in the arms of a slim, tall white man- DAD. He was doing such a terrible job keeping her engaged and all the little girl wanted was her mum. Peeling her body away from her dad’s, both arms reaching over for a touch. And the wailing, she needed comfort, needed a mum hug. 

I watch for 30 minutes then make the choice to walk over there. Mother is all to happy to break the monotony of the airport, of recycled conversations, to be spared of tears.  She tells me she has been stuck in the airport for 2 days, no wonder she hasn’t got the energy. I ache for her and am reminded of my own mother. 

I ask if I can engage with the younger one in distress,  immediately she is curious. I make my eyes bigger, to seem more neotenous and pull a silly face. Stunned, she turns away. 

I then show her my ring, small blue stone with an Irish Celtic design. I tell her, look just like your name, its Irish!

This time she watches me for longer, staring at the ring. I gasp and feign surprise, wide eyes. Oh my gosh, look! She follows the ring, leans forward. 

The moment another person tried to engage with her, she was reminded that she wanted her mother. Me too. 

...

With my greedy lust, I have bitten at the ankles of those who showed me grace. I took liberties and didn’t act with decorum. I was so excited to be understood, I wanted to have it in the worst way.  However, I cannot be loved the way I want to be. I want too much. My mother said expectations hurt you in the end, she must have a slice of Buddha in her.

I ache. Even in this semi-tropical climate, where the hummingbirds aren’t shy and the flowers are so new, they look heavenly, they look painted. I ache. These tears are ancient, so they roll slow, they take their time down my cheeks. If only. If only. 

To have a hand to hold, any hand. I miss a father. Not my own, a father. Appa, Papa, dad, pops. A gentle giant, like the BFG. Before bed, he’d whisper about trees and how they grow by moving and in my sleep I would smile, understanding that humans too grow by moving. 

I may have made it all up, all in technicolour, my grasping loneliness may have coloured in. to keep me safe, to keep me happy. That someone, yes you, understands. That not every man I meet wants to tup me like an ewe. It may be what abused children do, no wonder I went mad. The meetings in the red room of my mind, I must’ve been speaking to myself.  Insanity. 

 I cannot seek salvation in this, I must start moving. 

زه دواړه بخښنه غواړم او مننه کوم چې د افغانستان یوه کوچنۍ احمقه انجلۍ فکر کاوه چې هغه کولی شي تاسو ولري.