Boredom's a Bastard

  

She was bored. Achingly, mind-numbingly bored. Boredom had been her companion in place of any other. Boredom greeted her as casually as her husband once did, as she rose from her bed in the morning. It had its coffee companionably with her, followed her to work, and came back home with her at night. The most faithful companion she could ever imagine. It never lied to her, encouraged her, disparaged her, or evaded her.

But it did drive her to the same kind of despair she had experienced when she'd had her affair - once she realized her husband was doing the same. That despair over the unfairness of it all. Him leaving her in utter contempt, simply for doing what he had.

Her boredom is all-encompassing. However, she does not live alone with her boredom. Her 15-year-old daughter, busy with high school, her friends, and everything that entertains and inspires and brings delight to the morose mind of a teen-age girl, lives with her. Unlike her younger brother, she has never forgiven her father for leaving them. Mostly because, as she said, her mother’s incessant moody fatigues and lectures about the untrustworthiness of men drove both her and her brother to distraction. It was not exactly fun for them, living with their mother. Still, she refused to even see her father, acknowledge his existence. Her mother had succeeded in at least instilling that level of defiance and anger in her daughter.

She herself never sees him. She hasn’t ever once confronted him, looked him in the face, spoken with him over the last seven years that saw them first separated, then finally divorced. If he calls, to speak with their son, she listens mutely, puts down the receiver and calls her son to the telephone. She never says “it’s your father calling”, she says instead “someone wants to speak with you”.

Her son, now that he’s thirteen, spends week-ends with his father. Her family tells her that’s the best thing, that he needs to be around his father, pattern himself after a man, have a man’s influence in his life, to grow up normally. Although she bitterly resents this, she is resigned to it.

She tries not to dwell on the thought of her son accepting his father’s second wife, her replacement. Although she wasn’t certain, she felt her ex-husband’s new wife was likely one of those easily-laid women he’d been with while married to her. Her son says not so much as a word about either his father or his step-mother. He knows his mother has no wish to hear anything unless it is to condemn either of them, and that he would not do. He had said, at first, that his father’s new wife was 'OK', didn’t bug him. Obviously then, her ex-husband wasn’t bored. She really, truly resented that, the bastard.

He didn’t have to leave her. He could have said to her that he understood how it was, how his philandering had led her to do precisely what he was doing. But he wouldn’t admit it. He refused, adamantly, to say he had started it, that it was his sleeping around with other women that initiated her into the possibility of sticking it to him by doing the same.

“You’ve no proof” he said. “What you have is a dirty little mind, accusing me of sleeping around.”

“Right! I’ve got the dirty little mind, have I? You’re not nearly as clever as you think, mister. I’ve had reports back from mutual friends that you’ve been seen in pretty compromising situations.”

“Gossip? You depend on gossip about me to take it as proof positive that I’ve done those things?”

“Damn right, bud. I have it on the best authority. Augmented, I should add, by little clues I’ve picked up on my very own.”

“Clues? Madam Holmes, you picked up clues?”

“You’ve been too sloppy with some of your credit card charges. I’ve seen them. I can put two and two together. I never received any gifts from you from the places on that detailed listing.”

“That’s it? That’s the extent of your ‘proof’?”

“No, no it isn’t. Don’t you think even from a male perspective that it’s odd a man chooses not to have sex with his wife over a period of months at a time? Am I supposed to think that’s normal? Or might I somehow deduce that it’s normal for someone who’s getting off somewhere else?”

“Yes, you do have your mind in the gutter. I don’t have to explain, and I won’t. If you wondered you could have come directly to me to discuss any concerns you might have had. You might have been surprised at the answers.”

She was no fool, and she knew what she knew. It was indisputable. He didn’t have the kind of job that required working late nights, nor week-end trips. And suddenly there it was, his professional life requiring both those elements, with nothing but the most casual explanation from him.

In the end everything worked out to favour him, not her. They’d split everything, the proceeds from the sale of the house, the furnishings, everything. She might have looked for another house, but she decided to rent an apartment, instead. She did, though, move as far from their old neighbourhood as possible. No wish to see their old neighbours, suffer their pitying looks; try to overlook the awkwardness. Anyway, she never did like that neighbourhood, it was his choice, not hers.

And then to discover, once she was settled with the kids in their new home that he had decided to rent nearby as well. It was infuriating. She always feared, going out, that she would run into him. Worse, coming across his new wife, even not knowing who she was, what she looked like. She would have the advantage on her; likely recognizing her from a family photograph. It was too much to bear. She hated him with a grinding passion.

Which did nothing whatever to relieve her constant state of boredom. And the two companion emotions, depression and loneliness. She deserved better. The man she’d had that affair with thought so too. He had offered to pay for her apartment. Of course that came with a price. He would also have a key. And that was just too awkward, even if the kids were seven years younger, back then. Unlike her husband he had no intention of leaving his wife. He no longer loved her, he said, but he felt responsible for her, felt pity for her, for her compromised health condition.

“You said you love me” she wheedled him.

“It’s true, I said it, I meant it” he retorted, after one of their many heated discussions, when she had tried to patch the hole in her life by convincing him that he should leave his wife and marry her.

“You love me”, she said scathingly, “but not quite enough to want to live with me. Instead you’re happy living with a woman whom you no longer love, and you won’t commit to me. That’s your idea of love?”

“No, no it isn’t, but you’ve got to understand, she has no one else, she needs to be cared for, and I have that responsibility.”

“What about me?” she'd wailed, despairingly, when he would not be moved by her argument. “What about me? I’ve lost my husband because of you, and now I have nothing.”

“You can still have me” he said quietly.

“I won’t agree to those terms” she said sharply. “I won’t be a kept woman, living in an apartment you pay for, worrying about my kids getting screwed up, seeing some guy they don’t know hanging around, waiting for his intimate opportunities as soon as their heads hit the pillow. How long could people keep up that kind of relationship anyway?”

“You’re right” he finally allowed. Said he was sorry. Sorry about everything. About both of them succumbing to the relationship they had developed, each of them covertly and deliberately enjoying the thrill of illicit sex and misleading their spouses. It was no way to live. And she was right about that. Still, he would not leave his wife. And that left only one alternative.

And so they parted. It was far easier for her to part with him than with her husband. It was the idea of it; one relationship carnal and infused with the excitement of the forbidden, the other comforting in its implied social and relational security, infuriating though her husband’s stealthy forays for sex outside their home was. It seemed important at the time, and far less so as time widened the distance between the reality of her discovery and her resultant rage, and what she now experienced -- a great yawning distance of boredom.

She’d given a lot of thought to the barrenness of her social life, her lack of intimacy with anyone. Confided in one of the women she worked most closely with that she had decided to start an Internet-based dating service. Her friend observed that there seemed to be a lot of those around; why did she think she might be successful in starting up yet another one?

It was, she responded, her experience with being single, with being deprived of a life-mate, of a partner in life, that made her perfect for such an enterprise. She would bring to it a deep understanding of the trauma that people suffer after relationship separations. She knew from her very own experience how difficult it was to initiate new relationships, to discover others who shared similar interests, had like values, desperately wanted to find a companion. She could easily be a leader, someone to whom others could confide their disappointments and look to for guidance. Her explanation sounded entirely rational and impressed her friend no end.

Who then responded by offering a name for such a dating service. “Call it Lilith Garden”, she said. She had considered something like “Adam and Eve”, but then discovered that name had been taken. There were other possibilities, names including the word “Paradise”, that kind of thing, but when she did her Googling homework she always discovered those names had been taken. No one had co-opted Lilith, Adam's original mate, and she decided that made sense. She had someone help her with the artwork, and putting together a Web page, and couldn’t believe the number of people who responded, emailed her, eager to join her new group. The charge, she thought, was fairly modest; she had done her homework.

It was amazing how it lifted her spirits, brought her out of herself, to communicate with all these people. Lonely, like her, desperately looking for a companion, tired of looking in places where no one ever turned up but losers. Like themselves, though they never said that. She was generous in giving out advice, and people were eager to know what she had to say, they sought out her opinion. After all, she was running this greet-and-date operation, she had to know things that eluded them. She began matching people up according to their stated values, their tastes, their interests, their backgrounds. And encouraged them, when initial impressions didn’t match their anticipated longings, to be patient, give it a try, dig a little deeper into themselves to find a more co-operative spirit. In the short few months since she had launched her little enterprise she became a different person.

She felt alive again, fascinated by what she had begun, happy to act as a social chaperone, introducing people, encouraging them. She more than earned that money she extracted from her clients, she felt. They needed her, and she was happy to accommodate that need. She was less than thrilled when, on a few occasions, disgruntled clients blamed her for a series of unfortunate couplings when things most certainly did not turn out they way they even modestly hoped for. But that, she emphasized to them, sagely, was what life was like, wasn’t it? You had to take some chances, and your lumps along with them, to find in the end what you really wanted. And guess what? She archly said to them, it works, you’ll find the one you’re aching for, they’re there, you just have to keep on trying.

After another month or so she became acutely discouraged. It just seemed to flood over her all at once, as it were. One day she was alert and enthusiastic and everyone’s mentor, the next she was completely deflated, demoralized again, wondering what on earth she was doing. Finally admitting to herself she really had no idea what she was doing, playing around with peoples’ lives, encouraging them, pushing them toward a future that had no guarantees and, admittedly, most often no promise of success in discovering that coveted pot of gold at the end of their desperate social lives devoid of contact, of meaning.

Because, in fact, that was precisely where she was stuck. Mired in a life without satisfaction to her, without meaningful contact, a relationship with another person to whom she could devote herself, and who, in the end, would find her enchanting, desirable, who would cherish her.

She had lapsed back to the beginning of her intolerable, prolonged courtship with misery. And it was eating her up with anger, bitterness and utter dejection. Her children had no idea why their mother became once again that harridan that kept plaguing them with her objections to whatever it was they wanted to do.

Her friend at work hinted that perhaps she’d bit off more than she could manage, with her dating service. It was dragging on her, convulsing her own emotions with its incessant demands.

She agreed. She felt she could no longer continue the sham. She sent out a long emailed message to all of her subscribers, admitting that she simply wasn’t fit for the task of guiding them any longer. She realized, she said, that she was disappointing them all, but she emphasized that she was as greatly disappointed in her surrender to this defeat, as they would be. She had appreciated that they needed someone to lean on, and she thought she was strong enough to help them all, because she really, really cared about them. And, she said, she was prepared, to fully reimburse to any who were interested in making such a claim, that portion of their unused monthly dues that fell into the time-frame of the suspension of Lilith’s Garden's dating service.

People upbraided her through a series of emails, accused her of trifling with their lives, told her they detested her, that she was an egotistical user of people. It wasn’t the money, they argued, it was the trust they had placed in her, and she had never had the slightest intention of honouring that trust. They would never forgive her. Some threatened to take her to court, and she worried immensely about that, but it never did materialize. She emptied her bank account, grown so nicely over that six-month period, in reimbursing all the people who demanded their money back. Surrendering those funds did nothing to ingratiate her with those who now considered her a pariah, a social monster who took pleasure in manipulating other peoples’ tender emotions.

Finally, in worse emotional shape than ever, there was a telephone call. The voice sounded familiar but her mind was completely blank. It’s me, he said. Me? Who the hell was me? Frank. Frank?

“How are you?”

“Fine, I was just wondering how you are. I’ve missed you. You’ve no idea how much.”

“Really? How good to hear from you. I hardly recognized your voice, it’s been so long.”

“Yes, it has been. But you know, I thought of you constantly through the years. I haven’t been able to put you out of my mind. I recall all those good times we had together. I’d like to see you.”

“You would? Well, I suppose that could be arranged….”

She felt ecstatic, suddenly her boredom dissipated, she felt anticipatory, gloriously happy. Unaccountably happy, in fact, since this was a call from someone she'd scarcely given much thought to, over the years. Now, hearing his voice, she too thought back to the times they’d had. She contrived to recall those times as exciting, pleasurable, meaningful. Pushing back another memory of demeaningly covert meetings, guilt, and in the end, a bitter parting.

At work next day she told her friend all about the call, about the invitation, the yearning both had to see one another again. She knew, she confided, that if she agreed to meet, they would end having sex. She wondered, she threw out casually at her friend, if it would be worth it. She was dying to see the guy, he’d been really good-looking, skilled at love-making, said all the right things, brought her wonderful gifts, made her feel really special.

Well, responded her friend carefully, what’ve you got to lose? This, from a woman who actually felt scandalized by these revelations, who would never herself ever consider such an assignation. Of course this woman was sturdily, safely married, she could afford to spurn an opportunity for a little imaginative fun. She wasn’t lonely, bored, bitter. These thoughts running through her mind, she upbraided herself for thinking of her standards, not her friend's obvious need to be encouraged, to go ahead with what she most obviously wanted to do. It just puzzled her that her advice would be sought, under the circumstances. So she simply repeated, why not, what had she got to lose?

So, it was done. They met, they had sex, they parted. Meeting one another after that seven-year gap was interesting. Amazing how seven years could alter someone’s physical appearance. He wasn't so handsome, after all. Sexy, well not so much, why did she remember him like that? But he did relay to her some interesting information. His wife had died. Of natural causes, due to her medical condition, and he was now single. After relaying that information there was an awkward pause; neither had much to add, other than her “sorry to hear that”.

And the sex, well it wasn’t anything, in fact. She had shopped beforehand, bought slinky black underwear, imagined the sensuous delight of allowing him to undress her, fondle her, speak of his urgency. That was what had happened years ago, wasn’t it? So much a part of his appeal to her? Well, all that happened, and big deal. She could tell he felt as awkward as she did, throughout the evening they spent together. Dinner was nice, the flowers he brought along very nice, but what the hell was she supposed to do with them?

Checking into the hotel was not very nice. She didn’t enjoy that. It had lost its appeal, that mysterious, mischievous frisson of pleasure mixed with social guilt that had shot through her when they’d done that, repeatedly, years ago. It had heightened the pleasure they both extracted from their furtive meetings; their frantic, exuberant, sex.

She was glad when the evening was finally over, when they parted, each awkwardly promising to keep in touch. Neither had any such intention.

Remarkably, afterward, she no longer felt bored, restless, miserable. She felt … all right. 

 

 

Lost In a Literary Reverie

 

 

Though expectations can collapse
you can so often tell a book
by its cover, if not its widespread coverage.
The comfort and anticipation of
hefting a voluminous promise inherent
in the prospect of another reading
opportunity to open the mind
introduce the reader to new concepts
words cleverly manipulated to convey
meaning hitherto never suspected.

The awe felt at the storytelling prowess
of some minds drenched with the capacity
to invite readers into the mysteries
of life seen in ways fey and clever
beyond belief; but not quite beyond
as we suspend mundane faculties
so given to incredulity and lose ourselves
in the bends and twists of a creative
process whose Muse has triumphed.

Is there any greater pleasure than the
expectation of losing oneself in a landscape
explored by a skillful creationist,
unhesitatingly transcribed for our
delectation in fantasy and fact
drawing us ever closer into an arras
of human emotions we may have
noted but never quite remotely reached
shielded by the soft safe haven
of our own protected lives?

Each book sends a shiver of expectation
over our minds, into our very souls.
Each an exquisite jewel of the imagination
transporting, elevating, entertaining, instructing
us in the ways of Nature and the nature
of humankind; occasionally absent
in the telling. How utterly droll. 

 

 

The Sole Master Gardener

  

The gardens, muted of colour
form, texture, fragrance
are now a collapsed
architecture, delighting us
no longer as fall deepens
into garden-bleak winter.

Gone the thriving, brilliant
choreography, the boundless
exuberance of bulbs and tubers
bursting into flower, the shrubs
and fruit trees showering petals
transformed into luscious fruit.

The garden now is pallid,
exhausted, its summer audition
long past, the chorus of blooms
extinguished, no encores as the
final departure of leafy canopy
has descended echoing dismay.

The curtain is prepared now to fall.
The last bow and curtsy executed
as nature asserts sovereignty.
Casually deflects assumptions our
efforts reflected ownership
of carefully plotted, nurtured
triumphant gardenscapes.

There is no perpetuity here, merely
the gardener's eccentricity in believing
they exerted control over the order of
their gardening efforts. A brief, illusory
delusion, a borrowed vision, a hallowed
trust now returned to nature
and winter's ascendancy.

 

 

The Rising Phoenix of Jew-Hate

 

In 1930s Germany, Fascist Brownshirts marched 

in the streets, calling out 'Juden Raus!' Jews were 

heckled, threatened, disenfranchised, schools

closed to the very citizens who proudly thought of

themselves as Germans first, Jews second, for whom

German culture and values were prized; Jews among

whom were world-renowned scientists, writers and

artists, financiers and business leaders, soldiers and

housewives, workmen and the social elite -- all

destined for premature death by whatever means it

took. This crime against humanity in a genocide of

unprecedented scale and dimensions troubled the

conscience of an aloof international community

which to the present day avows commitment to that

pithy oath: Never Again. In 21st century Canada 

crowds of Jew-baiting terrorist-supporting Jew-haters

march in the streets, block thoroughfares and bridges

hang banners decrying the Jewish State of Israel and

threaten Canadian Jews in a reprise of history. The

Brownshirts were doing the bidding of the Third Reich

but in Canada, Palestinian Arabs perfecting the art of

propaganda while calling for the death of Jews have

manipulated the  Liberal government to do their

bidding and non-interference in the ransacking of

history, conciliatorily bowing to the raging hate of

the antisemitic mob replaying history in real time. While

Canada's Prime Minister visits Poland memorializing

the Holocaust and gravely intones 'Never Again', the

fate of Jews once more hangs on the balance of hate.

Psychopaths Among Us

 

The White Supremacist's rights to
freedom of expression under Canada's
priceless Charter of Rights and Freedoms
have been inexcusably tampered with;
his parental obligation to lovingly inspire
his young children to the belief that blacks
"must die" to ensure the future remains
bright with dignity and promise
and security for white children.

The Muslim woman whose husband
ensured that an earlier, childless
righteously-spurned wife swell their
household to help raise their three
daughters as her own, had her revenge
when she, her husband and their dutiful
son successfully conspired to murder
those three girls, along with their
guardian. An obvious necessity to
ensure the girls remained biddable to
Islamic ideals of purity and honour.

The elite-ranked military commander
whose professionalism was directed toward
stimulating and enhancing the courage
integrity and patriotic aspirations of
the country's finest, the while officiating
with the durability of rank and regard
welcoming home slain soldiers, lives
taken in the line of national and
international duty, relieves his personal
stress by discreet acts of vicious rape and
gruesomely sex-deranged murders.

These exemplary failures of the larger social
contract pursue their missions, leaving
that great legal compact submitting to
justice, while a reeling public mourns
loss of collective belief in the celebrated
Goodness of Humanity. Their frenzied
lunacy; our grievous tragedy. 

 

 

I Just Don't Get It...!

 

That’s just the way it is, I guess. I don’t have any brothers. Or sisters too, for that matter. But then, you know that, don’t you? I figure you know quite a bit about me. On the other hand, I thought I knew a lot about you. I understand now that I don’t know as much about you as I thought I did, once. I imagine you just think you know me, actually.

I thought that was neat, you having two brothers. Especially that they were so much older than you. You, their kid sister, so they could do nice things for you. Take you places, buy you things, help you out with your homework. Maybe there was a little bit of envy there. I often thought how it might be if I had a brother or a sister. Especially a sister. How maybe it would be really nice. I’d have some company, kind of. It’s lonely, sometimes, being the only kid in the house.

My grandmother told me that it doesn’t always work that way. She said to me sometimes siblings get along well with one another, and sometimes they don’t. She said take her, for example; she took very little notice of her younger sister, and to this day they aren’t all that close. As for her brothers, well, they were all years younger than her, and they were just kind of there, she hardly noticed them.

I don’t know how it would be if I had a brother or sister. Either older than me, or younger. I’m not certain if I even have a preference. I suppose someone older could be kind of a help, a guide, someone to talk to when Mom gets pissed off with me for something. That would mean I’d do an awful lot of talking to an older sibling, if they allowed me to. If they were interested in hearing me. I don’t know if that older brother or sister would be sympathetic, or whether they’d just laugh at me.

See what I mean?

And then, too, if I had an older sister would she even be interested in me ... or think of me all the time like being a pest she couldn’t get rid of? I’ve got friends who talk about their kid brothers or sisters like that. They talk about what a nuisance it is, how they just can’t get away from them, how they screw everything up, at home. I don’t think I’d be interested in trying that one out.

But, say, if I had a sister maybe a year older than me? A year isn’t all that much difference in age, is it? So say there was her, and then I came along and we grew up together, wouldn’t it make sense that we’d play together as kids, and then got to like one another and spending time together, and confided in each other, and were best friends?

I asked one of my friends if that was what it was like with her and her older sister. She just looked at me like she hadn’t exactly heard my question. Then she laughed, and I understood that she had heard what I’d asked. Her laugh was the answer.

So I guess I’m just day-dreaming about something ridiculous, anyway.

And I guess, Erin, I’m trying my best to understand what’s happened to you. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re feeling. I mean here you have a complete family, your Mom and Dad are there at home, even if they’re both busy, working all the time. They’re there some of the time. And then when everyone is together, you’re all there…together. I know I’m not saying what I really mean, but it’s hard to put into words.

So there’s you and your Mom and your Dad, and there’s also your two big brothers. One’s married now, I know, and the other one’s going to university. I know your family. We’ve been friends for years, after all. I’ve slept over at your house, had dinner together with you and your family. I’ve been around your family for years. I’ve even gone to church with your family, even though I don’t believe in God.

Neither does my mother. And she’s a single mother, left my father years ago. She’s really busy all the time, since she’s got to earn a living for us. She refused to take any money from my father. My grandmother said the arrangement they made, even though she signed papers written up by my father’s lawyer, was that he would have no visiting rights with me, in return for not paying child support. I can’t understand that, actually.

Is money that important, after all? You’ve got a father, a biological father and he’s not interested in seeing you, ever? He doesn’t even know what you look like, after all these years. He’s just kind of happy not having to pay child support. That really, really bugs me.

There’s no photos of him at home, but I know what he looks like. My grandma has lots of family photographs in her house, and there are some photos of him and my mother, in their frames, sitting on pieces of furniture there. There are more pictures of him in some of the family albums, but I’m not all that interested in looking for them actually. I don't remember much about him, it was so long ago. But I don't believe I want to remember anything about him. He's out of my life.

Anyway, this isn’t about me, is it? All right, it is about me, partially. I am involved, after all. Since I am - or was your best friend. Erin, I loved being your best friend. I want to continue being your best friend. You have no idea how hurt I feel that you keep shoving me away. I’m … disconsolate … that’s what I am. That’s what my grandma said, when I told her about all of this. She’s upset for me. I can always count on her for that.

But you’ve got family all over the place, even if they’re kind of distant in relationship; they live close by. My only two uncles live in Toronto and Vancouver, and I only get to see them maybe once or twice a year, when they come visiting. And neither of them has any kids, so I don’t even have any cousins.

Your family, even though they live close by, kind of ignore one another. You’ve got two cousins, girls your age, but you’ve always told me they’ve been mean to you, and you just don’t like being around them. I could see where you were coming from, but I found it puzzling, anyway. I’d have made an effort, I’m sure, to get my cousins, if I had any, to like me. I think. But then, what do I know, I don’t have any.

Erin, I do so very much miss you. I realize now that this isn’t new, this distancing from me, this hostility I feel and see from you. It’s been happening for a while, and it disturbed me and perplexed me and I didn’t know what to do about it. For a while I thought I’d just drop you as casually as you seemed to be doing to me.

It didn’t work for me, Erin. There’s a dark little worm inside me, squirming around, making me miserable, and that worm is the disquietude I’ve felt about our relationship, about its having suddenly seemed to dissolve, and I couldn’t figure out why. It’s worse now, your hostility toward me is more aggressive, more overt. You’ve progressed from speaking nasty things about me to the other girls when I haven’t been around to actually doing it in my very presence; I can hear you whispering about me and when I turn around, I can see that odd smile on your face.

What, exactly, does it mean? You can’t possibly have decided, after all these years, that our friendship was meaningless. We both invested a lot of time and emotion in our friendship. We’ve done things together, helping one another, that most people would never credit. You’ve told me things you told no one else. I confided to you things that I would never even speak about to my mother.

And yet, you said not one word to me, gave me no hint of what was really happening with you. To you. Instead, you told some of the girls at school we’ve always liked and hung out with. But not me. I had to learn from someone else. I couldn’t believe it. I felt horribly for you, and felt sad for me, too. I tried to let you know that I now knew, so it was all right. I was determined to do what I could to help you overcome this dreadful thing that happened to you.

And I tried, and I kept trying, but you kept slamming my words right back at me. That really devastated me. I didn’t want to say anything to my Mom, because I knew she would tell me that I was doing something wrong. She would defend you, saying that you had been traumatized, that your psyche had been damaged, that you needed understanding and patience from your best friend. That this was no time to abandon you, that I had to stand by you and do whatever I could to extend my friendship, to help you heal.

She just won’t hear what I want to tell her, she doesn’t actually hear what I’m saying. She’s so fixated on what you’ve gone through that she sticks to that, and won’t hear about my pain. To her, I’m just being selfish and self-absorbed.

I’m not!

My mother says she knows me better. She says I am being selfish. That I’m concerned with the way I feel, not the way you feel. That I’m missing the connections. That I’m taking offence because I feel you’re not responding to me the way you should, the way a best friend should. She says I’m expecting too much of you under the circumstances, because of the trauma you’ve suffered.

I’m trying to understand that, Erin. I’m trying to get my head around the fact that you’ve had six years of your life to tell someone what was happening to you, and you just never got around to it. My mother said that I couldn’t begin to imagine such a thing because I’ve never lived it. I guess she’s right there. But I still don’t understand, anyway, Erin, why you never, ever said anything to your mother. Or your father. Right, I forgot, you aren’t into telling your father all that much.

I’m trying to get it through my thick head, that same head that hears you calling me stupid all the time now, how it could possibly be that for all the years we’ve known one another, you’ve lived with this. There was never any hint that there was anything wrong with your life at home. I thought that your family was normal, in the sense that mine isn’t, since you’re all together, father, mother, kids.

Well, there’s nothing normal, obviously, about what happened with you. Migod, since you were seven years old! How could you stand it? I know you love your brothers because they’re your brothers. They seem nice enough; they were always nice to me. But your brothers … doing that kind of thing …

Remember when we were in grade six and they began that sex education course with all of us? I was so mad, remember? I really, really resented that they were taking us kids, just in grade six - we were only ten and eleven, after all - and making us learn all that stuff. Who wants to know about it? Won’t there be enough time to tell us about stuff like that when we’re older? I thought, back then, that maybe when we were in grade eight, or beginning high school, that would be a more appropriate time.

You never really responded when I spoke about that. You just shrugged your shoulders. And told me to just forget about it. I remember that. I remember how kind of distasteful it was to me to hear about that stuff. I hated it. I tried to talk to you about how I felt, but you weren’t interested in discussing it, you said. No wonder. Now I know why.

There wasn’t too much they could teach you, after all. I don’t mean that in a hurtful way. It’s not your fault. You were only a kid, and you were kind of trapped, weren’t you?

I mean your brothers are a whole lot older than you, you looked up to them, you trusted them. Your parents trusted them too, to kind of keep an eye on you when they weren’t around. And they weren’t around a lot of the time.

And me, I envied you, having big brothers who were around so you weren’t lonely or anything. Guys you could kid around with sometimes, that kind of thing. Because you’d be relaxed around them, you knew them so well….

 

 

Freed At Last

  

The Book of Women 4:3

English translation by M. H. Shakir

"You can never be equitable in dealing with more than one wife, no matter how hard you try. Therefore, do not be so biased as to leave one of them hanging (neither enjoying marriage, nor left to marry someone else).... "

The viper that consumed her heart and her spirit, the adder that took dainty nibbles of her liver and her spleen, the asp that sucked the very marrow of her bones; defeated, all. Her vital organs consumed, she has peace. Her agony of existence dissipated. She awaits the final release of Death. To be welcomed as a pious Muslim to her everlasting reward.

IN the context of proper attire and conduct, the Quran lays down one basic principle, namely, modesty which is stated in Surah 24: 30-31: Tell the believing men to lower their gaze (avoiding its concentration on a person’s body, or a certain part of it) and to be mindful of their chastity; in this they will be more considerate for their own well-being and purity, and surely God is fully aware of all that they do.
And tell the believing women to lower their gaze (avoiding its concentration on a person’s body, or a certain part of it) and to be mindful of their chastity, and not to display the charms of their bodies (in public) beyond what may (decently) be apparent thereof; hence, let them draw their head-coverings over their bosoms.
And let them not display (more of) their charms to any but their husbands, or their fathers, or their husbands’ fathers, or their sons, or their husbands’ sons, or their brothers, or their brothers’ sons, or their sisters’ sons, or their womenfolk, or those whom they rightfully possess, or such male attendants as are beyond all sexual desire, or children that are as yet unaware of (the physical attractions of) women’s nakedness; and let them not swing their legs (or other actions in their walking) that may aim to draw attention to their hidden charms.

They too, are at peace, saved from themselves. They will be re-united with us. No vestige of the struggle will remain, between their unheeding denial of God's instructions and their final submission. That submission to His divine will complete, irrevocable.

Her inner furies erased by the grace of God, she is prepared to embrace them; her sister, her daughters. Compassion now replaces enmity. Calm resides in her breast; an hitherto-unknown quantity; a soul-restorative.

Allah absolves those who do His work. He takes them gently unto Himself, cradles their weary essence, brings them final comfort.

You it was he loved, not me. His choice was you, when he had from among so many to make his selection. In our tribal village, the dashing, handsome great grandson of the village founder, son of the tribal chief, an integral portion of the wealthiest local family; he chose you, Dahlia.

The homely one, his first cousin with whom he shared childhood memories. Quiet and unassertive, her only obvious quality one of kindness, warmth of presence. Her form dense, already matronly. Why her? Years passed and she did not conceive. Whispers ran through the village. His family took note, and became impatient, yet he begged them not to press him. When several more years passed it was clear she was barren, a disgrace to herself and to her family.

When he set her aside, gave her freedom to leave, her family would not welcome her return, they disowned her. And when his eyes turned elsewhere though his heart was heavy, he looked at younger women, and in particular one whose clear complexion, long, lustrous black hair, sultry eyes and vivacity marking a vast contrast to his cousin,e became his choice.

She, Amirah entered his life. And she made his life pleasant and comfortable so he might wish to remain with her. When her father informed her of Almadhi's interest she was happy beyond comprehension, and she was anxious for formalities to be concluded, for the ceremony of marriage to be done with, to have him welcome her into his strong arms. It did not take long for her to pridefully advise him and her family that she was bearing his son.

For a son it was; Alhusain, their first child. She had fulfilled his desires and his need to have a son, and there would be more children for she was fecund and more than prepared to do all that was expected of her.

When Alhusain was yet an infant her husband became restive, and it was clear he was dissatisfied with something. Her relief was great, but she came close to despair in any event, when he advised her he had begun proceedings to emigrate with his family to North America.

She dutifully made all the required arrangements on her part, and determined which of their belongings would accompany them. Drying her tears she did what a good wife must do to follow her husband. She was fearful of leaving her family, her friends, her village, her society. And then, a catastrophe; a fortnight prior to their departure, Almadhi claimed to have had a vision and in that vision he was instructed to bring Dahlia back into his household. She would, he informed her gravely, aid her in the raising of their children, for Amina was yet again gravid.

She knew, even before they left, that Almadhi would be visiting Dahlia in the night-time hours, for he was permitted as many wives as he could afford to support, and he could afford to support more than merely two wives. From scorning the woman who she had replaced, she turned to detesting her and spoke harshly to her, although Dahlia made no protest.

When they settled in their new place on another continent and Atifah was born, Dahlia held the child as though she were hers and hers alone. She brought Atifah to Amina to be nursed, and did everything else for the baby, leaving the care of Alhusain to his mother.

Amina resented Dahlia on the one hand, but was grateful that she was spared having to look after an infant and a baby on her own. She was unrelenting, however, in her spite toward Dahlia and would never permit her to forget that she had been the spurned one and it was Amina who had brought honour to Almadhi's family, not she. Dahlia would never respond, merely dip her head in assent.

And then two other babies were born in fairly short order, two more girls, Daniyah and Bhashira, and Dahlia opened her great heart to the new babies each in turn, while their mother turned away from them. The three girls felt Dhalia to be their mother, for it was she who comforted them, encouraged them, supported them. With Almadhi's approval, Amina focused on their son, and Dahlia on the three girls.

And Amina's hatred for Dahlia, even while she gave up maternal custody of her three girls to Dahlia, festered and caused unrest in the family. Almadhi chose to ignore the tension, and he continued also to take his conjugal rights with Dahlia, far more often than with Amina, which she knew, and which drove her to a frenzy of raging acrimonious execration.

Dahlia deftly, in their large spacious home, kept to her own apartment, and it was there that the three girls spent most of their time at home, as well.

Almadhi's business continued to flourish, and life was good to the family. Their circle of friends and acquaintances remained firmly within the Muslim community where they were well known. Dahlia, however, was open and committed to casual friendships with those of their neighbours who were non-Muslims, and this too infuriated Amina, and she demanded that Almadhi do something to discourage this un-Muslim-like behaviour, one that their regular Muslim cleric, the respected imam of their mosque warned against.

As the children entered adolescence and beyond, the girls began to emulate their beloved Auntie and became freely engaged outside the confines of their home, with their peers who were not Muslim. When this became apparent to Amina, she railed against the girls' behaviour, warning them that their father would not approve of it.

And when she informed Almadhi of the girls' indiscretions he became more alarmed than she might have imagined. He brought the girls to his study and lectured them sternly, and later spoke privately to Dahlia, forbidding his children to mingle with non-Muslims in any kind of social situation.

As the years passed and the girls became older, one 18, the second 15, the last 13 years of age, tension in the household increased. Particularly as their mother announced she and their father had decided their girls would now not only wear the headscarf, but also begin wearing an abiya.
the girls were horrified and Dahlia was distressed for them.

As soon as they left the house they would discard the abiya, push it into their school bags, to be retrieved when departing school for the return journey home. But Alhusain, witnessing this, reported it to their father. And reported also that his sister Atifah had been seen speaking to non-Muslim men.

The household became a hothouse of accusations, denials and counter-accusations. The girls were desperately unhappy and their aunt became extremely worried for them. Nothing was resolved despite the threats of dire punishment, for the girls became more defiant, refusing to even wear the abiya on leaving home and Dahlia tried to explain to Almadhi who was not closing his mind yet to her, and to Amina, who loathed her, how in their new country the girls were being influenced by other social mores that would not impact deleteriously on their personal faith.

Almadhi became furious with Dahlia, something that had never before occurred. And Amina watched, fascinated, as he set Dahlia aside, refusing to hear her out, shunning her company. And it was when Almadhi approached Amina, together with Alhusain, and, face stone-hard, infused with an anger they might never have suspected resided in him, said they must take steps to save their family's honour.

So it was that a dreadful accident occurred, when one of the family vehicles driven by Atifah, with her aunt sitting beside her and her sisters Daniyah and Bashirah seated in the back somehow managed to plunge into a wintry-icy canal, in the city where they lived. The submerged vehicle and the four dead bodies were discovered by a police patrol, for their family had reported them missing.

A truly dreadful tragedy. The three remaining family members went into deep mourning.

It is in a jail operated by infidels that they now await trial and judgement by kuffars; completely unjust, without divine guidance, meaningless.