Together for decades: as young lovers, they were inseparable.
Now he is dead; she wanders alone through the timezones.
Never staying in one place for too long, never making connections; She could have had it all, some say, yet without him, it wouldn’t be the same.
She keeps walking through so many countries, walking to remember and to forget.
The death of her love, the haunted heartbreak lingers until it will no longer remain.
Lost on the journey, she stands still under the stars; the recognition of the love she lost startled her, as she finds herself looking at what was in the Bamiyan Valley.
Looking and imagining the Buddhas standing within this beautiful Valley she would have loved to have visited before their destruction by hate and intolerance, she moves on to walk in a direction that suits her soul.
The words of Rumi take shape and play a scene with sounds as I sit thinking of the desert, exotic lands, and being another person in another land with another life.
In a far off land different from my own, I am alone, and I walk within your nation, yet I walk apart. The half-hidden faces and the glances show me that I do not belong here.
I have never worn so much cloth around my head, had so much material cover my body, and I have never felt unseen; yet the heat and the clothing cool my skin, and I feel free of fear.
Arabic on the wind and the vision of a mosque so beautiful you know the artists and architects loved their god, yet I’m a hypocrite for I do not believe in anything anymore.
Safely wrapped, a kind man ushered me towards the tea house to have something to drink. The smell of mint, rose water, and orange blossoms put my mind in a philosophical mood.
Surrounded by noise, I feel calm as I cannot understand a word, yet I know I don’t belong here; I am not part of this country. I am a hypocrite hiding behind a cloth I don’t believe I should wear.
Yet, I cannot bring myself to admit that the pull of this place feels like a longing that I have felt since I tried to play that broken instrument that looked like a Qanum many, many years ago.
I sit in the tea house surrounded, yet alone with my thoughts. Then I hear the bombing begin. It is a shock: a booming calamity and a whooshing sound mixed with many other sounds. It is a shock to my ears and my heart, for we do not know of this life in Australia.
Blood mixed with dust, concrete and debris strewn across the streets, bodies broken and mangled, and there, so close to me, the kindly man who ushered me in: bloody and dead. In those cloudy eyes, I once saw courage.
I walk from the tea house to stand and look towards the sky. You have gone from me through some cruel twist of fate, yet I know we will find each other again one day.
I feel like an important person in that instant. It is as if my feelings are the only feelings I can feel exist. Individualism has taught me to think my feelings might change the rivers of time.
The next bomb destroys my daydream, the images and the sounds of Rumi end, and I am sitting at my desk reading about your country: saddened by so many dead.
The seat is bare, except for you and a few tidy possessions.
You’ve been down this road before; broken and broke.
There’s nothing like poverty to make you feel like you’ve made the wrong choices. Yet, you are liberated now; free on this bench in the snow.
You think, “How beautiful the snow is as it falls. If I was more familiar with words I would articulate this scene with more purpose and beauty, but I cannot convey this. This is a photograph or a painting…”
Still, in the snow, you don’t notice the gun against your head until the jolt ends the falling snow for you.
Your last moments: broke and broken; beautiful and sad; thinking of the falling snow.
What beauty in your death. Death on the bench in the snow full of a fading glow. Until the light turns to darkness. Then you get the chance to do it all differently.
Playing sad tears from the bow of horse hair you wield so well. Strings hear the echoes of your many sorrows, as they become vibrations and sounds, to ripple along your ivory skin. Memories of your lovers flow into the wood to haunt the many players of your violin.
A lawyer with a love for cooking and longing for sunshine, he cooks when he can. Sad and overworked, he pools all his funds, quits his job and becomes a chef. No more nasty principals with red pens; Now it’s vanilla slices, beef burgundy and banging the sexy waiter.