Redemption

Friday #8

Out of options to consider, I carefully approached the mother and handed her some margarine slices I managed to preserve amidst the lawless fury of a hopelessly covetous horde. She did flinch a little, or it appeared so for an imperceptible moment, yet her eyes pertinaciously remained hidden.

With a sigh, I closed my eyes and dreamed of a lovely day under the orange tint of the midnight sky. The brittle tunes sung behind the bushes by the nocturnal monarchs attested that the world was getting prepared to slumber, thus opening another brief ceasefire. With my eyes closed and my primitive eyesight flawlessly obstructed, the delicate atmosphere that I sat within seemed perfectly embroidered with graceful jingles and subdued meanings only implied and never explicitly conveyed. Meanings were sometimes better left equivocal – if one could discover such luxury in a pile of misconstrued remnants of carnal debris.

But when the hindrance between my irides and the loathsome world was removed, I realized that such naivete was only true when I averted my eyes from what's blatant. The image that my sights perceived consisted of now-halved once-genuine hearts and purposeful cement carvings reduced to a handful of pathetic crumbs, blown away at the mere glimpse of the winter storm.

I tried to concentrate my consciousness elsewhere, but the mother's presence was deceptive and alluring because I knew that she was the only one who had the slightest chance of rendering events just a little more purposeful. I turned and looked into her eyes, now released from her single-layered prison and frightfully staring at the chunk of margarine left on the floor.

Perhaps a short conversation, I thought, would suffice to bless me with a relatively favorable incident. I once again approached her, but this time with a more identifiable smile.

I asked her what her name was. The mother refused to reply.

You can take your time, I said patiently, But we need to trust each other. After all, we're both survivors – let's try to keep it that way. Together.

Misleading, embellished with candid remarks but down at the center lies an intangible lie. It didn't matter, however, to the both of us – all I needed was anything other than the endless expanse of grey to be occupied with, and all she needed was a moment of peace and tranquility. She looked into me indefinitely as she took a bite of the margarin.

My blind eyes skimming through the valleys consumed by the dark, I remained unconvinced. I hoped to rise and discover meanings beyond the concrete walls of insignificant duty, yet I knew I was but an absurd puppet, hanging from such unseen fingertips, pushed to and fro at the laughable fickleness of a childlike devil – childlike, but concrete and corporeal. Choices were a luxury for an incompetent pawn, and it was the worst time to ask or hope for rather extravagant ways of living.

So my only option was to endure.

***

My daughter's name was Sarah. Said the mother.

Yes? I replied with fabricated glee, trying to feel rewarded for the patience I exhibited.

She tried to imitate a smirk, but the best she could derive at was a twisted expression of hollow dolefulness even with good effort.

Will I be able to see my child again? A pair of glassy eyes, akin to the vacant lot across the strand of the eastern end, fixed its gaze at the center of my cognizance. There were no roots or the green aliveness visible, but the anguished sounds abode at the landscape; I observed no discernible deeds or successive achievements, yet the undying endeavors born under the sand searched for such idle fancies.

If I cannot, The women said, or almost whispered reproachfully, dropping her face into the lunar halo she held within the bowl enclosed by her blemished palm, Why even try?