Neda got up from the bed. She looked at it. It seemed to her that she had a fight. Normally she did not move much in bed; but that was not the cast the night before. She noticed that she had slept with her skirt and camisole on. They were so wrinkled that she knew she had to either go home and change or iron them. While debating what she would decide, she straightened the bed; put on her stockings and shoes on and went down stairs.
After a week of mourning, mostly pretentious, Neda noticed that the ones who suffered truly and did not pretend, were old man's three children. She thought that she needed to do something for her little sister, who by her estimation was only eight months younger that her own child, however, she needed to be soothed herself. "I think about it later."
The last time she had seen her father's house this crowded with rented chairs and tables, food, people coming and going, was her wedding. But then they had the cherry tree. Now it was only a stump with a pot of plant on it. The strange thing, the season was the same, spring, in fact end of April. Wasn't that month that her Ariana was born, too. Why was it that every major event in her family happened in spring? Was that a coincidence or happenstance ? On the last day of mourning, the seventh day, she saw Mansour, who had come by himself to show his last respect to the old man. They just came face to face with each other on the hall way of the first floor. Oh, how he had changed! He was bald at the top of his head, he had lots of gray at sides; but his eyes were still the same. She knew the end too well to begin again. He knew where it all had gone. She knew what it would all become. He stepped out of the way, so she could pass. None said anything until Neda was about to lose her chance to ask about her daughter.
All the strong, blinding, and baffling first effect of forceful and distinct surprise were over with her almost at once. Still she had enough to feel; a feeling that was nothing but agitation, painful and misery; and somewhat delight in the mix.
"Tell me about my child!" She almost forced him to stop.
He looked at this mature woman, who did not look anything like a girl he had to give her wine to have intimacy with. He stepped aside for her to pass by; and only said:
"You chose your poetry over your child! Let me go!" And he walked out.
☭
"When I lie down on the bed of dreams,
I hear the melancholy, yet mellow sound of a bell.
The dawning day, in my heart gleams.
The sound of awakening children knell.
They slowly and solely sing my sorrow-
A dire but harmonious verses of sad eyes.
Should my fire of life last till tomorrow-
I worship that fire which in my heart lies.
At night when skies are lit by stars
And I listen intensely to hear
The war of planets which has lefts scars
The fading music in my ears is so dear.
☭
Years of tension have come, years of stone had gone.
And strangely for those years I long.
And lying on the bed of dreams, I have none.
Neither tension, nor stone; what have I done wrong?"
☭
To Be continued
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