May awoke early on Tuesday, as she did every Tuesday regardless of whether or not she wanted to, she slipped into the tattered skirt and long sleeve shirt that would block the sun’s attempt to darken her already lightly tan body. As she ate a filling breakfast of grain and yogurt accompanied by a sweet, warm, cup of coffee in her enchanting green kitchen, she daydreamed of places far away from The Sandbox.
She gazed out the kitchen window and pictured the fixer-upper house she wanted to own someday. A great, big, fixer-upper house that sat close to the water and who’s stained, glass, windows shaded the grass, clouds, and water different tints. She imagined the sizeable old fashioned tub that would be the focus of the bathroom and the crown molding that would bring character to the living room. She even thought of what rooms would be scented by which Yankee Candles. Surely, each room should have a sweet smelling scent in which to be recognized.
May thought of the snug office, that she would call a “study” merely because it sounded better. The study’s walls would be just big enough to fit a poster displaying photographs of different sushi properly named in the caption below each picture. It would be accompanied by framed photographs of different restaurants she visited around the world. Her favorite part of that room was the dark, mahogany wood, chair with cumbersome cushions that swallowed anyone who sat in it and perfectly accented the dark picture frames on the desk.
She imagined the flower garden in the back of her house. She saw herself walking down the red and yellow tulip and white daisy path to the, freshly white painted, swinging chair that faced the water. She looked forward to curling up on it and swinging in the breeze while being carried away in whatever book she was reading at the time.
May thought of future summer vacations to Cape Cod and the Jeep Wrangler that would get her there. She thought of the gigantic, black, boots she would wear Cole-hogging and how good Cole-hogs tasted with a smidge of horseradish on them. She thought about jogging on the Cape’s shores in the early morning and jumping in the ocean to cool off after a good workout. She imagined Christmas Eve’s by her Grampa’s old fireplace. She pictured playing in the snow and feeling the crispness of the air on her cheeks. She could feel the winter’s numbness on her hands and feet as she dodged snow balls in the woods behind his modest house that rested, between curves, on her favorite hill on the Cape.
She wondered whom it was she would share the beautiful house with and who would accompany her on her vacations to the Cape. She awaited the days when she would admire and be admired by the same person. She did not think of what he looked like or where he was but of quaint little things. She thought of the pleasantness it would be to have someone to take care of her when she had a cold, to reach the high places in her house, or to sway with on the white swing. She thought that whenever the Father blessed her with him, she would take him back to her little hometown in Connecticut and walk down all the roads she walked down single, thinking of who he was and how they would meet. She thought she would bring him to the little fishing lakes, the ocean and the bay, in Florida, where she used to jog and fish and do all those things as a “couple” that she once did as a “single”.
May finished the last sip of her coffee and swallowed the last spoonful of grain that nearly escaped her mouth. She took a deep breath in and warm air filled her lungs. It was another Tuesday morning in northern Africa.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Chapter 19 "Dancing with the Father"
May excitedly strapped her mosquito repellent, Tylenol PM, towel filled bag on her back. It was move in day. As she and Red approached the rickshaw that would bring them to the house May would stay at for the next two months, she heard her phone ring. She answered and the “yes, move in” turned into a “no, wait”. She learned a long time ago, His timing was always better then hers but, she could not help her eyes from watering and her heart from feeling let down. After an encouraging hug from Red and the comment that made her giggle, “TIA…this is Africa”, May begrudgingly got into the rickshaw and went to The Smith’s house to tutor their children rather then to move in with a family.
The following days, as she rested her head on her soft feather filled pillow in the blue room, many insights were exposed about the previous week. The week prior to the inevitable phone call, her dance with the Father had drifted into nothing more then a monotonous shuffle. A hint of homesickness mixed with a dash of “BSDs” (bad single days, as her friends referred to them), added to an overuse of the internet was multiplied by the lack of sleep she had gotten because of her nervousness about the future. The other side of the equation showed, a tired “wanna-be” servant who let the world’s music clash with the Father’s.
May was thankful, even when she let the dance dwindle, He kept the pace. She was thankful, when she stepped on his feet and messed up the rhythm, His mercy and grace kept their hands intertwined. She was thankful that He was her partner in this waltz because she knew He would not let it end, even when she was distracted by others spinning around them. She was thankful for the “no” and “wait” answers because they taught her to keep her eye’s locked on His, the leader of the dance who knows the next step. The more she thought about it, the more grateful she became. She knew she used to be like many of the people she encountered every day, deafened to the music and completely unaware of the dance that was in front of them. She was all the more appreciative that she was subject to the Father’s lead and she waited patiently on His next step.
The following days, as she rested her head on her soft feather filled pillow in the blue room, many insights were exposed about the previous week. The week prior to the inevitable phone call, her dance with the Father had drifted into nothing more then a monotonous shuffle. A hint of homesickness mixed with a dash of “BSDs” (bad single days, as her friends referred to them), added to an overuse of the internet was multiplied by the lack of sleep she had gotten because of her nervousness about the future. The other side of the equation showed, a tired “wanna-be” servant who let the world’s music clash with the Father’s.
May was thankful, even when she let the dance dwindle, He kept the pace. She was thankful, when she stepped on his feet and messed up the rhythm, His mercy and grace kept their hands intertwined. She was thankful that He was her partner in this waltz because she knew He would not let it end, even when she was distracted by others spinning around them. She was thankful for the “no” and “wait” answers because they taught her to keep her eye’s locked on His, the leader of the dance who knows the next step. The more she thought about it, the more grateful she became. She knew she used to be like many of the people she encountered every day, deafened to the music and completely unaware of the dance that was in front of them. She was all the more appreciative that she was subject to the Father’s lead and she waited patiently on His next step.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Chapter 18 "Window Views"
May enjoyed “people watching” during breaks from learning Arabic. She sat in her sturdy, brown chair, in McCaine’s room and peered out the soiled, paint speckled, window. She peeked through the barbwire fence that stood two feet high, unevenly concreted into the brick wall. The breeze permitted a dusty, light orange bag to wave to its’ companions who were attached to the rusty yellow tractor, that sat peacefully among four filth covered iron beds, amidst the dirt field.
May was not sure if the family below hung their sheets and their small articles of clothing on the tractor to air out or to dry from their submission to the rain the night before. A rug, covered by the same amount of dirt that lay beneath it, sat draped over the hot pink, broken slide that leaned on the metal frame beds. The sounds of amjads and rickshaws penetrated McCaine’s room through her newly painted white frame window.
May gazed out the window for an hour wondering the character each person acted in life as they walked by that warm afternoon in June. She imagined the man dressed in a white jalabia, carefully walking through the trash lined paths, to be a local store owner or an amjad driver who had taken the day off from work. She wondered if the woman whose dangling earrings, gold wrist ringlets, and clean healed shoes, was on her way to visit friends or to buy baby food from the local pharmacy for her child at home.
She could not imagine why some men wore blue jeans and long sleeves shirts as they walked down the road in the 120 degree heat and she found the men wearing hats rather bizarre. May noticed a man riding an old fashioned bicycle. The small mango filled box attached to his seat swayed as his feet pushed the pedals forward. A donkey driven, flat carriage, passed as its’ owner whipped its’ pelt in an attempt to motivate it to a faster speed. A woman, carrying a baby who swung from right to left mirroring the stride of her feet treading the sand, stopped to fix her rustled auburn tobe.
May noticed dozens of people solemnly marching in the direction of the giant oval mouth that sat atop the local mosque. The voice was a small murmur but could still be heard in the blue room a half mile away. She watched local business owners and random commuters alike begin their zombie-like shuffle towards the giant msqe. It was the second call to wrshp that day.
May was not sure if the family below hung their sheets and their small articles of clothing on the tractor to air out or to dry from their submission to the rain the night before. A rug, covered by the same amount of dirt that lay beneath it, sat draped over the hot pink, broken slide that leaned on the metal frame beds. The sounds of amjads and rickshaws penetrated McCaine’s room through her newly painted white frame window.
May gazed out the window for an hour wondering the character each person acted in life as they walked by that warm afternoon in June. She imagined the man dressed in a white jalabia, carefully walking through the trash lined paths, to be a local store owner or an amjad driver who had taken the day off from work. She wondered if the woman whose dangling earrings, gold wrist ringlets, and clean healed shoes, was on her way to visit friends or to buy baby food from the local pharmacy for her child at home.
She could not imagine why some men wore blue jeans and long sleeves shirts as they walked down the road in the 120 degree heat and she found the men wearing hats rather bizarre. May noticed a man riding an old fashioned bicycle. The small mango filled box attached to his seat swayed as his feet pushed the pedals forward. A donkey driven, flat carriage, passed as its’ owner whipped its’ pelt in an attempt to motivate it to a faster speed. A woman, carrying a baby who swung from right to left mirroring the stride of her feet treading the sand, stopped to fix her rustled auburn tobe.
May noticed dozens of people solemnly marching in the direction of the giant oval mouth that sat atop the local mosque. The voice was a small murmur but could still be heard in the blue room a half mile away. She watched local business owners and random commuters alike begin their zombie-like shuffle towards the giant msqe. It was the second call to wrshp that day.
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