Thirty, Languid Dreams

I, who willingly departed my land,
Was free to wail about it on the height.
Now, I stagger, for the command
Is strict, and no one is coming to my sight.
*
Hiding, what a strange word, but for the sake of grace,
I am destined to do so, without a name.
I yearn a dreamless sleep, just in case,
I dream of you, my hand, blood, and flame.
*
I drain myself of all perceptions, I crush.
I abandon every beloved things I own.
To substitute them all with a talking gush.
But in me, the recurring, languid dreams have grown.
*
"My dearest Stacy,
"Nothing remains. I hunger for a spiritual lightening that somehow befallen on me. But I have no practice. Sometimes I feel the stagnation of my mind. Then I wonder what the purpose of my life has been.
"People choose different path in the course of their lives; one goes on a straight path, the other goes round and round; but when there is a misfortune, it is an unknown path that follows you no matter what path you're familiar with. It seems that in these times, we go round and round until...
"I wonder if we were born without any feelings and emotions what would be like! Would we be like animals, plants, buildings, or a piece of rock? I have loved three men in my life, my father, Steve, and Aria, my brother. Two are dead, and I think my father is sick. They won't tell me anything, but I know it, I am sure of it. My mom says that he had pneumonia; but I think it is more serious than that. I am planning to go to Iran soon, very soon; after I swear for my Citizenship. The ceremony is in two months. My parents were planning to come for it; but when they told me that they can't, I knew something was wrong. I am very proud to become American Citizen; but that does not mean that I have forgotten who I am, where I have come from, and most importantly my roots and my parents. How much I wish that after all these years, we put all of our differences aside, and you come, too. But you don't even answer my letters. Why Stacy?
"When I talk to my father, he does not seem like the same man to me. Something has died in him. I think that the greatest tragedy in life is not dying but it is what dies inside of you. Something has died inside my father. I feel it. I am not hysteric. You can not classify me as a person with hysteria. I just know it. I feel it. My intuition is never wrong.
"When I talk to him, I sense a scorn, a contempt, a ... I don't know, something I can not find a name for it, in his voice and manner that frightens me.
"Life for me is as it has always been. I still work in the same children hospital. Now I am a Nurse Practitioner. Besides seeing the sick and dying children which I still have not learned to cope with it, the other stresses are gone. Did I ever tell you about the stress in the first few years? However when I see a child is cured and he or she is going home alive and healthy, my soul and spirit are animated to dedicate more of what I can give. If I can be only a small source to bring a little something to the lives of these children, I feel like my life has had a purpose.
"Did I tell you that I have joined a literary club. Actually it is like a joke, a play; but it is something I like to do if I ever have free time. We write verses and prose. We exchange ideas. The man who runs the club, his name is John Welsh, is a very strange man. I can never figure him out. Occasionally he is lively, but mostly, he acts weird. He must be in his sixties, always wear a dark sunglasses. I guess he does that so no one can see his expression. He writes verses, some of them are very good but sad. He always starts the meeting by reading one of his poem. There is this imposing, almost patronizing keeping back, kind of reservation in his poems, an astonishing conformation of the knowledge, the view, and the sound. Any time I talk to him, some kind of unintelligible and undefined dejection and sorrow arise in me- a man without expression, with dark sunglasses! His view point of the world is baffling and obscure, and it propagates from his existence.
"Going to those meetings has introduced me to many striving poets and writers, which most of them, in my opinion, have no talent in writing. On the other hand, it is so agonizing to go to this meetings every Saturday night. I know what I will face, and I hate that; but I go anyway. I haven't read any of my verses yet. You may call me arrogant, but I think mines are much better than anything I have heard so far. We always meet in some one's house.
"It has been almost seven years from our separation; and I haven't heard not one word from you. But I know many things about you which I have recently discovered. A couple of weeks ago, in the grocery store, I came across Marianna, my old roommate before you. It is a small world, isn't it. She has a set of twins, both girls. You know her, too. She was taking many classes with us. We both were surprised to see each other. First she was unfriendly, but I insisted on talking to her. She has just recently moved to Dallas with her husband and their two little girls. She told me about you and Charlie. She told me that you're married and have a little boy. Oh, Stacy, I am so happy that you are a mother, something that God deprived from me.
write to me. Send me a picture of your little boy, please, for old times sake.
"Love, Anna"
*

To Be Continued