And I sit down wondering, what has happened to my voice, I just could hear myself, I just could hear my voice coming from the depth of the horizon, coming from the very far land, coming out of myself, out of its source, out of itself..
And its echo approaches, penetrating all the bodies, overcoming all the doubts, passing through all the burning sun rays without dissipating, amongst the clouds of all the smoke without being changed, and over all the true senses.
The echo is coming out of a doll, it's an echo of the sound of the doll, it’s a bending indirect echo, its coming out of itself..
And the voice and its echo together meet at angle 49ْ. The same angle at which I am taking a picture of themselves proudly, asking them to smile, and behave naturally.
The same angle at which I have always asked the photographer to photograph me from, I would always find myself the prettiest child I wanted to appear, angle 49..
And I don’t think of anything, I sense the folds of the quilts and folds of the silence one after the other.
I put my head between his arms, and pretend to cry, so, he, the little baby, feels worried, and starts wiping away my tears.
I find my head, that is thinking of nothing, drowning into his lap and his bared arm and hand keep touching my face spots, my eyelashes and my hair.
Oh you little kind man!
He always announces " I am not a tiny kid, I am a man.. I am a maaaaaaan" and all the surrounding environment is burst into laughing..
I keep listening to my heart, the heart that has often missed the perfect place, and this heart starts speaking quickly, and nothing is what I understand. However, I keep listening, keep hearing, and it keeps talking..
All the moving parts of me in this minute of highness, are my thumbs. All the world of silence is myself and him..
I can't either hear my nerves.
Oh my nerves! They always enjoy making me a joke beneath their shadows, enjoy making me as a violin exerting the echo of the sound of the doll. And I , my turn, keep playing, and my looks, their turn, gradually start out the fire.
I try to avoid the walls of his head, and the walls of my head, both are stiff, and the aspects of this stiffness are completely different.
" pepsi is forbidden.. no.. no.. pepsi is cool". It's the favorite sentence for this little 2 years old baby. And the favorite answer of my almost 19 years aged voice is "pepsi is only forbidden, pepsi is not cool", and he then shows a funny expression, by his lips, his eyebrows and his clapping hands.
The mist of their speeches tattles about the arrival of the joy , despite their hard work to hide the cheerfulness.
And the children try to discover whether the promise of visiting the amusement city is going to be done or not..
Suddenly, the very loud shouting surprises me, " they will take us" everyone yells!
Sara is like " Sandybelle! What's the problem with your sisters!", I grin and reply " it's a part of the story, story of my sisters and I , haha" and I hug him, the "pepsi is cool" little man, little man named Zain.
The moment out here,the sound of the little bubbles over the surface of the boiling tea catches up my attention, and again, I start thinking, "is it the voice of myself? should the voice of myself be understood or heard as bubbles? And what bubbles? Bubbles of this poor boiling tea!!!" I speak to myself.
The 42 minutes we spend along the way to the amusement city are wonderful , and the hero is the same, is Zain.
"my shoes are big, my shoes are big" Zain acclaims. And we are all like " hahaha, big, big, shoes ,shoes, haaaa".
Then, we, reaching near the garage, get out of the car, and enter, we are allowed to inspection and then, we are directed into the fun, the golden lights surround us, balloons, young people, children, and Zain starts dancing under the loud popular music, and people are enjoying this show, everything seems amazing.
We wander, from a game to another, we buy a rosy balloon and I am supposed to carry it.
The big machines are working, and the seats are booked, we are happy, actually everybody is happy.
Then, it's one minute, one minute I feel I am totally blessed, I bend to Sara's shoulder, and keep checking my mobile. Zain with his father watching him closely is playing, and I am recording a video. It's minute, no. 9820620 of my life. Will never be forgot.
In the chamber of the big windmill , within my eyes, the sky seems purple, or, gray to black, it's exactly as anyone can imagine even if it is quite different. It's OK, as if we imagine the golden points of lights as luminous larvae dancing over the pretending raucous silence, or as the same golden small glass balls we used to collect and count and recount when we were in Zain's age, or maybe little older.
Both pictures are great. The most important thing, is that I still can feel the moment, the moment itself, can feel stings of the hot embarrassed dusty wind, and I am with the same faces, the same persons, and I am not changed even though they are, and they have the right to do so, they, like each of the "everything" in this world, are growing according to life theories and rules.
"this year was.. was a copy of the same nothing of each year. I had thoughts, some were like a yellow stone over the sand, and some were like a ball of grass over the anvil, many thoughts, like what happens at the beginning of each year, and I had wishes, also like what goes on each January, some came true, some still have not. In the beginning of each year is a wish, and at the end of each year is a rose, both are with the same faith" I respond to Sara's question about life. This response was made by my same voice coming out if its source, out of itself, and this response, is followed by a wonderful conversation between the two ladies, Sara and I. at each point, Sara comments " haven't you become a depressed girl Sandybelle?" and all I do is smiling.
"Sandybelle, this guy seems to be following you" Sara says. " who? Me?" I ask.
He is a tall man, with a perfect tanned Iraqi complexion, a while later, he sits next to my mom. And I keep laughing inside, it's like the same poem that I keep repeating, repeat and wonder about, it belongs to someone who has counted the ages and cultures, and this culture is the most beautiful ever.
Zain falls down, and I bend helping him get up, I am afraid he may cry, but he is the brave one who doesn’t do. And I hold his hand, following his father into a game specified for children, I ask them to let me in, i want to share Zain playing, they refuse, I loathe smilingly, and I am back to where my mother is sitting and to where the same young man is stuck.
And my head, that has already been thinking of nothing, starts thinking of the " I love you Shammosa, you! shammosa!" sentence Zain tells me.
In the middle of the ever- lasting thinking, we are going home, and Zain sits in my lap, and we keep talking.
At the door gate, we get out, and go in, out there, an old man with his children are standing, and I hug him, he whispers loudly into my ear " you are great, Shammosa you are great" , and they repeat, "you are great", and I keep contemplating, therefore, I am asked, "are you annoyed by this "you are great"? , I say " never", then,I am asked " so what's wrong, or what's right hehe", "It's nothing, it's just the same shammosa and you are great I have got before" I reply.
By another person, I am asked again the same way of investigation, " by whom???????", I laugh and answer calmly " colleagues in my college".
"Are those colleagues girls or boys mademoiselle ? "
"Hehe, who cares about the gender??!!!!!", and we all keep drinking pepsi , which is of the same advertising, "pepsi is forbidden.. pepsi is cool" .
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Note, recently, I have finished this second grade successfully, and I am officially a third grader. Nothing important has been happening except the daily routine, and tiring days of exams, lectures and boring college and colleagues.
Right now, all the things I want to be in touch with are my vacation simple, and very simple, projects and relaxation..
Also,I have had a wonderful time spent with one side of my relatives. I, for the first time, visited the city of Omara in the south of Iraq. and it needs another post to tell you about, and I will write as soon as possible.
Ramadan itself is knocking at the doors, and I am very shocked of realizing, how rapid the events are going on, and how rapid our days are expended! hope mercy, justice and charity will be our only dealings. And wish you all the best. Till next time I write , you all take care of yourselves, I appreciate every big and simple email was sent to me, and bow for every bit of worrying, caring and encouragement. you all blessed..
