A Woman Defined

My Story: In Memory of My Love, My Husband

Our house was quite small.
For years, we carried it in our carry-on bag while traveling through our starry, lucid dreams.
Our furniture fit perfectly in our refrigerator.
The garden was not a problem to keep up for it had already stabilized itself on our kitchen table.

Then came the storm, unexpectedly, in the middle of the night
It entered our room through a window left ajar.
It bewildered thoughts, which I had carefully placed on the side table of my dreams, together with my broken sense of vulnerability.

The whole house was shaking. 
The China dishes in the cupboard were trembling with fear.
A bird flew off from the colorful pattern of one plate, disappearing in the dark.
A tulip fell off too.
Just like that, it promptly died.
We witnessed how the China plate screamed with pain and was badly cracked.

But the kitchen chairs still remained warm, full of promise of comfort,
still waiting for unknown, invisible guests, who never arrived.

The moon was looking in through the window stubbornly for hours, talking in whispers, telling us 
optimistic, inspiring words, like: 
Don’t leave your imagined reality, like a nameless plant or a fading color in the tapestry of your bedspread.
Fall in love over and over.
Bleed into each other, become tremendous, so you may become eternal.

I am not really the best storyteller.
As we speak, still uncertain and can’t tell you as how the rest of my story will go.
So, I just take out my brushes and some tubes of paint: green, yellow, and purple,
and paint away on my canvas.

While I secretly wipe away my tears.

Mahvash Mossaed

Tags: Mahvash Mossaed, poems, Poetry

Posted in Literature, Mahvash Mossaed, Poetry |