The road is slippery mother, and you know that I have never been stable, like an old bridge which only animal and ants cross, the house is depressing and my world is very simple, and I don't like simplicity, I'll go in search of myself I had enough of farming in the barn, don't add a third piece of cheese in the dinning table tonight.
Your loving son,
Mohanad
That was his short goodbye letter, his little sister-who bare no similarity to him, cares for nothing but rinsing, and tidying the house and dishes, and waits for a proposal, found it carved in the wooden table he made when he was eleven years of age. I as his only friend knows him more than his sister do who cares about coordinating the houses falling decor made of wasted wood and than his mother who spends her time milking the goat, cooking, and sowing. Their family were poorer from ours, and I don't mean poorer in money, money was our last concern Mohand and I, they were poorer than us in happiness and pleasure and joy and poorer than us in speech, not talking to one another, each living the day to perform his role in it, their life was close to their goats life, they had no specific purpose, wandering in life like a passenger apathetic to the time he'll leave. Mohand's mother weren't like this before, she was kind and loving and loves her son, daughter, and husband dearly, until her husband left her and she buried him under a nearby olive tree. I despised her afterwards, I became hating of her and ready to say anything that demeans of my manner and of her, although she was little from the start. How can a mother be between her son and daughter to provide food only? Without distributing between them a hug or a hug and a half, she was cold, cold, cold, her coldness killed me, so what did it do to Mohanad? He ignored it, sometime he'd tell sad poetry that makes me cry during the whole digging and after it, then he'd say 'I love my mother, and complain to her all the time about my sorrow and missing my father'. In sleep he'd make up with his mother, and wakes up in the morning to live with her coldness and pray to heaven that it wakes him in another day full of his mother, a day full of life.
Mohanad..was exceptional..and because I was his companion in farming, with every hole dug he told me a thought, and we haven't planted a tree that its fruit weren't ideas branched of a great idea. The most beautiful of our sittings is his funny hysterics filled poetry, a drop of optimism, and a stale lake of sadness sprouting off a man who didn't have a mother, even thoguh she existed in front of him. Don't tell me about how some people mothers die without them seeing them, and that Mohand's sadness and longing was exaggerated, because no...it's different when you see the one you love in front of you not forwarding any feeling, complete apathy and coldness scorching you heart till it considers to stop pumbing blood, I know everything about a person need for a mother, a hug, and love mixed with primary meals. Instead of being approached by excessive poorness, because I can't live one day without my mother's love and her laugh and her kiss even though I'm a grown man. Salma read Mohand's letter to me and his mother at the same time, Salma was crying screaming in fear of the house being without a man, and I saw a tear on his mother, so I was bewildered and broke down right there, Mohanad...Oh you who left us to find yourself!
A week after he took a path different from that of our fathers I had to act...and take his burden and role at home, there was no other choice but proposing to Salma, marry her and live with her mother at Mohanad's old house. The house he left for its wooden depression and utterly devoid feelings. To marry Salma for fear of Mohanad family's getting lost was proof that I loved my darned friend. I didn't love Salma ever, eventhough her beauty was acceptable, her empty brain wounded me greatly, she was nothing but a wife for me, and a sex partner but my self no one nurtured but my mother. I wish Salma was like my mother...Salma is without feelings, Oh Mahanad at least give your sister a drop of your emotions and I'm sure it'll last me a life time. I wonder sometime, why are you different and if your difference is what kept you from us, if so damn your difference. Salma my wife the wife, I gave her from love what I posses and ignored everything, I was blessed with a child I named Mohanad, and your mother day Mohanad, and I, Salma and little Mohanad remained...and our life passed by quickly quickly quicly!
Two years has passed with us living a painful poorness, poorness of love, poorness of friendship, poorness of brotherhood. Little Mohanad, the only one I feel alive wih, fatherhood...something else I can not describe like Mohand the poet. I remember he once said: to be a father to be responsible to love thousands of times, forward a hundred time and
give only one time. Fatherhood is something deserving to be tired for like an everlasting love.
It was Eid, and I decided to give my son something that'll elate his little heart and give Salma too so she won't live this year in misery. One gift is enough...I went to the other side of the river. I entered an old shop and bought a toy and a fabric piece...while I was leaving the shop I met an old man, time has drawn a map on his face, and some of his teeth fell bored of his weak gum which don't feed them so it as well fled.
I sat talking to him as I feel comfort talking to people his age, may they give me some of their ages, or in other words, some of their wisdoms. I talked to him about my son Mohanad and he told me about his mother, then he said: Mohanad, this name remind me of a man of poetry who came here two years ago!
No one could've imagined my shock at that moment. My feelings evaporated, condensed in my eyes then poured and rained. I leaned on a near wall, I sat down then said: you saw him? And he replied: Yes, he was very wise.
-Where is he now? Do you know anything about him? Where is he, tell me where?
-He was buried a year and a half ago after he told me ten poems and a prose about wanting to find himself.
Mohanad...oh you who left us to die !
Your loving son,
Mohanad
That was his short goodbye letter, his little sister-who bare no similarity to him, cares for nothing but rinsing, and tidying the house and dishes, and waits for a proposal, found it carved in the wooden table he made when he was eleven years of age. I as his only friend knows him more than his sister do who cares about coordinating the houses falling decor made of wasted wood and than his mother who spends her time milking the goat, cooking, and sowing. Their family were poorer from ours, and I don't mean poorer in money, money was our last concern Mohand and I, they were poorer than us in happiness and pleasure and joy and poorer than us in speech, not talking to one another, each living the day to perform his role in it, their life was close to their goats life, they had no specific purpose, wandering in life like a passenger apathetic to the time he'll leave. Mohand's mother weren't like this before, she was kind and loving and loves her son, daughter, and husband dearly, until her husband left her and she buried him under a nearby olive tree. I despised her afterwards, I became hating of her and ready to say anything that demeans of my manner and of her, although she was little from the start. How can a mother be between her son and daughter to provide food only? Without distributing between them a hug or a hug and a half, she was cold, cold, cold, her coldness killed me, so what did it do to Mohanad? He ignored it, sometime he'd tell sad poetry that makes me cry during the whole digging and after it, then he'd say 'I love my mother, and complain to her all the time about my sorrow and missing my father'. In sleep he'd make up with his mother, and wakes up in the morning to live with her coldness and pray to heaven that it wakes him in another day full of his mother, a day full of life.
Mohanad..was exceptional..and because I was his companion in farming, with every hole dug he told me a thought, and we haven't planted a tree that its fruit weren't ideas branched of a great idea. The most beautiful of our sittings is his funny hysterics filled poetry, a drop of optimism, and a stale lake of sadness sprouting off a man who didn't have a mother, even thoguh she existed in front of him. Don't tell me about how some people mothers die without them seeing them, and that Mohand's sadness and longing was exaggerated, because no...it's different when you see the one you love in front of you not forwarding any feeling, complete apathy and coldness scorching you heart till it considers to stop pumbing blood, I know everything about a person need for a mother, a hug, and love mixed with primary meals. Instead of being approached by excessive poorness, because I can't live one day without my mother's love and her laugh and her kiss even though I'm a grown man. Salma read Mohand's letter to me and his mother at the same time, Salma was crying screaming in fear of the house being without a man, and I saw a tear on his mother, so I was bewildered and broke down right there, Mohanad...Oh you who left us to find yourself!
A week after he took a path different from that of our fathers I had to act...and take his burden and role at home, there was no other choice but proposing to Salma, marry her and live with her mother at Mohanad's old house. The house he left for its wooden depression and utterly devoid feelings. To marry Salma for fear of Mohanad family's getting lost was proof that I loved my darned friend. I didn't love Salma ever, eventhough her beauty was acceptable, her empty brain wounded me greatly, she was nothing but a wife for me, and a sex partner but my self no one nurtured but my mother. I wish Salma was like my mother...Salma is without feelings, Oh Mahanad at least give your sister a drop of your emotions and I'm sure it'll last me a life time. I wonder sometime, why are you different and if your difference is what kept you from us, if so damn your difference. Salma my wife the wife, I gave her from love what I posses and ignored everything, I was blessed with a child I named Mohanad, and your mother day Mohanad, and I, Salma and little Mohanad remained...and our life passed by quickly quickly quicly!
Two years has passed with us living a painful poorness, poorness of love, poorness of friendship, poorness of brotherhood. Little Mohanad, the only one I feel alive wih, fatherhood...something else I can not describe like Mohand the poet. I remember he once said: to be a father to be responsible to love thousands of times, forward a hundred time and
give only one time. Fatherhood is something deserving to be tired for like an everlasting love.
It was Eid, and I decided to give my son something that'll elate his little heart and give Salma too so she won't live this year in misery. One gift is enough...I went to the other side of the river. I entered an old shop and bought a toy and a fabric piece...while I was leaving the shop I met an old man, time has drawn a map on his face, and some of his teeth fell bored of his weak gum which don't feed them so it as well fled.
I sat talking to him as I feel comfort talking to people his age, may they give me some of their ages, or in other words, some of their wisdoms. I talked to him about my son Mohanad and he told me about his mother, then he said: Mohanad, this name remind me of a man of poetry who came here two years ago!
No one could've imagined my shock at that moment. My feelings evaporated, condensed in my eyes then poured and rained. I leaned on a near wall, I sat down then said: you saw him? And he replied: Yes, he was very wise.
-Where is he now? Do you know anything about him? Where is he, tell me where?
-He was buried a year and a half ago after he told me ten poems and a prose about wanting to find himself.
Mohanad...oh you who left us to die !
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