>> Sep 18, 2013
When it rains, I see a little boy, in torn pajama and with no shirt, running out of his small room. He stretches his hands to capture the drops - all of them. When it becomes dense, unsolved puzzles play on his face - one for the success of the ones he could hold, one for the misses. He looks at the burial of each of them as the drops fade away on earth. He mourns as if it's his responsibility. His mother comes out, consoles, scolds. But the dutiful doesn't stop, can not stop. A few more, saline this time, fall and fade.
There is none to pray.
There is an old woman, a pianist. She still plays the piano on weekends and creates new tunes for herself. She looks at her little audience, looks at their eyes - when they are becoming indifferent, showing a little reluctance, feeling engrossed, catching tears - she plays on - for all. She knows the reeds by heart. What she doesn't know is how she sounds when she plays. At the end when people smile - in awe, in love, in respect - she stands up, slowly, very slowly bows in front of her crowd and tries to find unsatisfied faces in them. She gets none.
She is one.
Two are needed for marriage. So two they are - one who speaks, one who is mute. He speaks in different languages. Mostly they are loud, otherwise they remind her of snakes. Sometimes they are of anger, sometimes threats, sometimes they are of biological benefits, sometimes when they are not fulfilled. She reads him in silence.
Only her hand gestures scream.