“time is a tree (this life one leaf)but love is the sky and i am for youjust so long and long enough” – E.E. Cummings
I will sit here and listen to your stories for hours.
I will ask if you are thirsty after your tears dry up. I will blame my sofa and look around once again to find some comfortable cushions to give your spine some support.
Then I will make coffee again. For both of us. Meanwhile the sun will set, I will miss its orange hue on the sky from my balcony. My plants will miss my attention.
You will say how my life is better than yours. How your life inhibits creativity, while mine inspires a lot of metaphors. You will curse your fortune and laugh at someone’s fate that in no way you or I can control.
Our discussion won’t follow a straight line. See grief moves like a snake, or like a balloon lost above. Maybe because it is a state so characterized by its needs—of joy, of fun, of perspective, of empathy, of hope, of love, of respect, of memory—people are eager to imbue it with blind self-obsession.
I will stop you for a second, and say, “But, wait! Even in my life, sometimes I feel like….”
You won’t let me complete the sentence.
You simply cannot see it.
You cannot see how some people are tired, sad, and fighting their battles. Maybe their wars are bigger than yours. Maybe they are fighting within. Maybe they are not lucky like you to have two listening ears and a hot mug of coffee readily available on a weekend evening.
So I will sit patiently again. I will hear how you had to become feminist to care for yourself. I will agree how your mother-in-law is the most ungrateful person, and your cousin hurts you every time you buy her a pricey gift. I will try to understand how your aunt once abused you verbally and even after years you still cannot forget that. I will see your point where you mention how much hard work you have to do to support your husband who works harder. I will praise your children, and you will write about that on your Facebook status. I will hide myself from the attention of being the protagonist of your status that unreasonably draws attention of a hundred “like”s.
You will continue portraying yourself a feminist, while destroying all female characters in your story.
Four hours will pass like that.
My mind will be restless, it hardly sits these days. It will remember some of my own stories that match with yours. My regrets, my weaknesses, my forgetfulness, my victories, my friendships. But I will stop here because maybe my story is irrelevant. I will take deep breath and give the mind some oxygen to relax. For now.
The delivery guy will knock on the door. You will smile for the first time after seeing him with two boxes of pizza. I will have to hit the gym in night to burn that calorie. Also to clean up my memory. Workout is a great cleanser.
You will complain once again how fat you have become. You will look at me enviously and utter, ” I don’t know how you have that figure!”
I won’t answer. You won’t wait for my answer. You will continue your story- about children, about how busy you really are, about how you never had any help, about how only death can bring you your peace.
Then you will ask me if I watched your favorite show on TV.
I will tell you- I don’t watch TV. There are too many news that break my heart. Somebody will discuss about lives lost in some part of their world. Somebody will divide human beings to rule the world. Somebody will argue about weapons that ruthlessly kill lives. We reached to cancer cells, got samples of soil from Mars, created virtual versions of human lives online to make more narcissists. But when it’s death, we either write poetry or make a news piece. Is it too difficult to control untimely deaths? Let me tell you, death looks terrible on poems. Death looks more terrible when it’s just news. Death never gives peace. Life is peace. In living, in grief, in celebrating, in friendships- you find what death lacks- a life.
You will not agree with me.
To make you happy, I will let you eat the last slice of pizza. Just like old time.
The night will crawl again with the promise of a morning. “Listen, take care and visit again okay?” I will close my door, and open another blank page of the journal.