Friday, January 31, 2014

206, Summer. Some stories are told for later


..C
I can still imagine, see - in my mind, the days when I was young, growing up in the old house with Dedha’ar and Oma. I remember them well, vividly, and sometimes wonder what happened to things long forgotten by everyone. The games we used to play in summer, from morning to dark, throwing the lipkai - the short, pointy stick, or hurling the stones in a circle, or against the log, games no one plays anymore. I remember the smell of the food Oma used to cook, the black tree’s white flower pies she made with dark honey, and the sweet cheese pies - they were so delicious and at times, for a moment, I can almost feel their taste on the tip of my tongue. Also the pumpkin pies - I did not like but kept eating them regardless, to the endless amusement of both Oma and Dedha’ar.
And the house - I lived in many places and houses but that one I deeply felt as it was part of me, of my being like no other object I encountered, and I will carry it with me always. If I close my eyes, I can still see it, up on the hill and the huge shed behind it, all painted in green, the trees blooming in the spring with the most beautiful colors, the soft white, the strong yellows, even stronger after the rain, and the faded pink all reaching to the eye as if to keep it all to themselves; but also the vine shade, the turtles passing our house going up to the stream, Dedha’ar catching the foxes stealing our food. I remember the long days of loud wind, brought by the never ending springs, arresting me inside with its terrifying howl, the thunders splitting the earth, my ears, my silly heart. The shadows coming to life after dark, taking the shapes of fear. And the stories I've heard that filled my heart with fear, joy, shock and trills, desires and dreams.
And I remember Oma and Dedha’ar, the way they loved me.
Where are those times now? What's left of them when the memories decay, other than the story I'm telling myself here, with the hope of finding, bringing back some of those moments, to help me find in my heart that obscure, elusive, unstable pleasure that lasts a heartbeat, at most?
I was born in the winter in a place north, far from home. I still have some faint memories of the harsh winds, the cold air, and the big mountains, the snowflakes suspended in the air for a moment, before the wind blew them away. But I don’t remember anyone. The first thing I remember well is the day I saw the fox with Dedha’ar. This happened seven moons after father brought me home. I was six years old at the time.
After that - things started to change, and I remember more and more from those days. It was early spring and this was the sowing season, so most of the men and women were busy preparing, away, down to the valley to their fields, for long days.
In our house Oma was preparing Dedha’ar’s and father’s food and clothes for their many spring trips. They were sometimes away two or three times in a moon and I always overwhelmed them with questions when they came back. When they were away Oma, and sometimes Guara – my great grandmother, who lived in the house next to us - told me stories about the great Gra’ard, Guara's father and other stories filled with people from the past.
Looking back, it's hard not to see how my imagination took its cues from them, and set my reality to their tune, fighting - not to survive but - to thrive, eager to find, to devour the exquisite prey it found hidden in the most unexpected places. And in time, when I grew up, my mind's fantasies and adventures, and a part of myself became just that: the consequence of almost random stories told by others, from which my own story then came to life.
But there were some things I did not understand then. Why?
I asked him once. And Dhedha'ar smiled: “Some stories are told for later.” And coming back to telling, there's a point where this story and reality diverge, before coming back to be one. And It will take us a few more stories to get there, but I believe we will.
One step at a time.