Easter Saturday. Kids will soon wear white and carry candles
as tall as they are. Others will hunt for eggs and will never remember that
they did so in a few years’ time. Someone will die of pneumonia, somewhere.
Others will wonder if the Ebola virus can be contained. Meanwhile, it is High
Tea time in London as Yaks are getting milked, early morning, on the planes of
Mongolia.
While in past essays I remained amazed by the expansion of
the universe, today it feels that our earth is running out of place. Too many
people who still believe in the infinite availability of resources; too scared
the rest become of not having the personal space within the shrinking interval
of existence around them.
Easter Saturday. Adults will remember the dried flower
petals they still keep in a book of poetry.
They do not remember who gave them, but remember how they felt. Too many people have since told them what they already knew: that their space can be conserved only if they remain
in it alone.
… I chose a book of poetry from my simple library and sat by
the window overhanging the ocean. The North winds had not arrived to Baltimore
yet, but the loons, diving incessantly, seem to know that spring is not here
yet. That Easter Saturday is the wait for that storm. That tomorrow, little
girls wearing lace-dresses and white shoes may get wet. Like loons diving in
the calm waters near Baltimore.
There was a line I had written atop the first page of the
book I chose from my simple library. It was not in English, and it was written
in pencil. Pencils we used to sharpen very carefully because the tips used to
break easily and jam the sharpener. It was an art to sharpen a pencil.
It read “laughter is the music of the smile”.
And, on this Easter Saturday I read a poem I had read many
times before. And I did not think anymore about the Yaks of Mongolia,
overpopulated planets, or High Tea in London. I just thought about the dried
flower petals one keeps in a book.
Given by a lover. Or by a daughter.
April 19, 2014
© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014
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