It has been a year since I wrote my last post, I didn’t touch a pen since then. Meanwhile, I took a sabbatical year, in that it was for some reasons. I lost my mother last year, and It was her anniversary a week ago, and then nothing for me had any more importance. I returned there for the funerals, the goldfinch had disappeared from the landscape longtime ago, and many more of small things with it also, that made the vista more beautiful to look at under an avalanche of sun, it’s like having bearings, and anchors for some sailor-like, to which he returns to his port-d’attache, now and then; in my early career, I was a flight-attendant for decades, you know what I mean.
It was the nostalgia of memories from childhood sightseeing, longtime beautifully grounded in your mind. For sure, there was something missing in the neighborhood, that -je-ne-sais-quoi that cognate together before, besides The red wheelbarrow and the white chicken that were always there, like you say, each time that I return home for a visit to my mother. Then, she told me then about the updates, sadly sometimes when that person had passed away, and then a moment after, the sweet little gossips of her about who get married, and so and so, of which I listen to her religiously with deft-ear, but just to please her, while she showed proudly her plants and flowers that so much depend on the red wheelbarrow, and the white chickens that gather around her feet at the sound of her voice calling them” petits, petits, gourmet, gourmet,” each time they saw her in the backyard with a bowl of crumbs in her hands .
But then, that Je-ne sais-quoi was still hanging in the background in my mind when I came back from there on my way to the buzz of working life, like a piece of a puzzle missing in a big picture, a broken pixel in screen computer, and then its presence or absence was already forgotten in the multitude of pictures floating in front of your eyes. With time, the numbers of missing pieces added to each other’s, and the picture of the landscape fast-changed to a patchwork of urban architectural design and remains of rural grooves. I stared at a vintage portico standing still denoting to something from the past characteristic to the best time of the Fahss work that will be swept by the shovel in a moment, and a pane of history with it.
Then came the pungent moment of back to reality, when I stood in front of the tomb of my mother to pay her a tribute, it was in the small cemetery of the leafy town; the cemetery was once hidden among olive-trees, bordered with Cyprus trees, and surrounded by grapes vineyards and grooves like in Napa Valley, that shrunk to a handkerchief perimeter of greenery. In a moment of silence, it was only the wind that flutes with the olive-trees small leaves like when a flock of birds took a flight from the ground just when someone approaches them. But there were no birds, they have muted from chirping, and had gone long time ago, like Mackneen the Algerian Goldfinch that once proliferated in the region; and Mother was the last elder in town of the few number elderly that were hanging around, like you say the last of the Fahss people who inhabited the flatlands and meadows, like the tribe of the last of the Mohicans.
With her, a style and a way of life meld with fairy tales, of a thousand and one-night book, ogres, and clever heroes, and idling princess on shams and ottoman living behind closed-door of sultan citadel had gone.
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
_W. C. Williams
So just what was the deal with that red wheelbarrow and whose white chickens? and goldfinch. It has no importance now…