Her eyes… there is fear in her eyes.
It was blurry… but I remember it clearly.
Old hands like my mother’s but she wasn’t my mother, then why do I see her? The
place is cold and that is how I feel until I look at her, I feel cold and wet
as if I didn’t run away from that day’s hard rain. Everything around was cold
and wet that day and so was it in my dream. That day when I was strolling in
the park I saw a black sparrow… Francis said he would rather be a black sparrow
than fight in the war. I saw the black sparrow, and I left the park.
She is sitting on a wheel chair, she is
wearing black. Today, when I picked up the burnt paper, I crushed it without
knowing why; my hands can still feel the smooth blackness. But she was
surrounded by a harsh blackness, she was in the sun, but everything was crude
and dull. I hate myself for crushing the burnt paper, I can feel the crude
blackness now.
Francis collected stones all the time, he
had strange hobbies. Stones he said are beautiful unless we give them a shape. The
old lady, someone’s mother, had an image in her eyes; a dull face as if sculpted,
and I agreed with Francis that it looked utterly dead. It scares me every time
I see the dream.
I am there to help you old lady. Who is it
that you are holding in your eyes? What are you whispering? I can’t hear you? She
isn’t looking at me Francis, she is looking somewhere else. Francis I can’t see
you. I can’t see the black sparrow. I am tied to the dream. I see her eyes
Francis… her eyes… there is fear in her eyes.
