As a personal exercise (and perhaps the start of my next project), I'm allowing Qhema to write her autobiography. This is a piece from late in her story.
I
thought I would write every day. I could think of nothing but him, even
as I came to the place where Sirlay had lived, even as I was
reintroduced to Yhako. There was no one in my head but Erom. I thought
of his long, even jawline, his thoughtful eyes, his quiet warmth. More
than anything, I thought about how great it was to lie next to him, to
speak all of the many words I had to say, as he merely listened in
peace. There was such great turmoil, such chaos in me in those days, and
I longed for the restorative peace that Erom produced.
But
every time I went to write, I found that I could not produce a single
letter. Writing reminded me of Erom. I thought of every moment along the
way as I taught him to read and write. I thought of how he learned to
love words so much that he wanted to write letters to his neighbors, to
my brothers, to complete strangers. I thought of how he had changed the
spelling of his name so that an “o” appeared in his representation,
because he liked the idea of a picture that carried so much meaning
despite appearing to have nothing inside. I thought of how he himself
had taught little Fedorr how to read, needing no guidance from me. I
could not write because there was too much sorrow to it. Writing
represented the life I had left behind; I life I had loved, but that I
could never return to.
No comments:
Post a Comment