A Symbol of Another Time

One must, of necessity be circumspect
in polite society. Taking care not to offend,
for example, by making much of an
exotic spectacle. It would not do at all
to glance lingeringly and notice with some
depth of observation those garbed in a
manner reflective of a far-off, foreign
culture so removed from our own that
men wear a sort of dress and cap it seems,
and women of that culture simply are not there,
so eclipsed are they by the voluminous
fabric cage in which they are enveloped,
eyes only to be seen through narrow slits
permitting forbidden sight lines.

Surely this represents a vision tunnelled
concisely toward a heavenly gaze so the
pious may not be led sadly astray by
commingling with those of another culture
whose freedoms represent monstrously
blasphemous insults toward a sacred injunction.
So we may not and should not judge, nor
feel rejected when a tentative overture is
sullenly ignored by those deliberately
oblivious to the presumed female
penchant for verbalizing contact.

Yet those small girls, frantically alive
with the zest of games and companionship,
head carefully covered and hair tucked within,
seem as joyful and carefree as any child,
anywhere. What happens to them on the way
to adulthood to succumb to traditions of bitter
silence, avoidance of human relations, sour
withdrawal inside self hidden by prison-like
garments from the beckoning world without?

The little boy, however, steering
the shopping cart for his uber-clad
mother, softly excuses himself and shyly
smiles, his brown eyes sweet, as he
crowds the groceries aisle and passes
before me. Him, my own eyes gratefully
embrace, a symbol of another time
another place and hope for the future.