Whose voice?

POSTED IN Stories January 25, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Whose voice?

 

Writing could be only a struggle with death and sometimes a victory over it. Nothing dies more entirely in the human mind than the hidden memory of the first steps, the first spoken words and childhood’s first glance of life.
I have never sifted life, never hunted for it, I was never bookkeeping it nor have I ever used it for ”literary experience” purposes.
I simply loved and lived life, normally, spontaneously, disinterestedly, sometimes  lazily.
I impregnated myself with life, hoping that its essences will echo inside me as strong as a small drop of fir resin echoes the scent of a whole forest. I used to stay awake late in the night, in a perfect harmony with insomnia, watching the trees, the stars, breathing the darkness near my wide opened window.
One morning I discovered the mystery of one apricot tree blossomed over night, like a child coming from the deep sweet dreamy waters of sleep.
Who was the child: the apricot tree or I?
Sprinkled with pink white flowers I felt inside me the echo of the Greek scream: ”Thalassa!”, when they discovered the Homeric  wonder of the Sea.
When did my apricot tree become white with flowers? While I was asleep?
That tree dressed like a spring bride became my swing that went high and higher straight to the Milky Way.
The table of shadows invites everybody to take a sit and tell a story.
The old Jewish house of my childhood does not exist anymore, but in my memories. Late in the heart of night, when every soul sleeps, my friend, Insomnia, opens to me old windows that in the light of day seem to be locked.
I see myself, a four-year-old, running wildly between the trees of our orchard, climbing and hiding and running away from brothers, sisters and especially my mother. They always threatened me with ”lunch, dinner”, awful words, scary sentences for a four-year-old who loved climbing the trees and eating their fruits only.
I see my father, tall, dark, pale, a Poet, gathering us together, five children, and organising a poetry contest, behind the house.
There he would improvise a stage where we would recite poems, to be rewarded for the best acting ever.
I see myself fidgeting, fighting my tears and my fears, climbing the stage behind the improvised curtain, trying to remember my poem.
Of course, I always won! Everybody would be ready to give up their own pride only to see my serious and proud face receiving the chocolate trophy from my father’s hands.
My brothers used to sing but I, with my small voice, I would recite classic love poems not knowing the meaning of the words, and I would say ”I love you forever” with the same passion, hunger, delight, that  I would eat my chocolate  prize with.
I never smiled. Yet, in my father’s arms, I would hug him strongly, thankfully, collecting his tears with my fingers and wondering where they come from. I would caress his face and dry his tears of love silently. He loved through me, he recited with me, he cried for divine love having me in his arms.
Whose voice recited those poems? My voice or my Father’s?
I would not know….I do not know…I will never know.

 

Maria Magdalena Biela