in the car with the burning sun of August in my face
my mind lost in the drear streets,
my father talked, i barely listened.
i knew he either did something regretful , or he was about to, for my father is the kind of man who only talks out of guilt, he has a kind soul, a restless mind, and a heart that clasps the world if it ever needed to.
we were heading for a bookshop, thirty minutes away from home, i wasn’t aware of the disappointment i’m heading to, but in our country we don’t have that many bookshops to choose from, my father always saw me reading books on vacations, but he never knew my story with books, writing and literacy, he loved the idea of having a child who is interested in reading and education, i am not sure though whether being a girl added to his pride, or to the indefinite complexity of life.
i admit of not being an easy child, stubborn and hard headed, always focused on my perspective, hardly taking in his or anyone’s perspective for that matter, i was and i am always convinced that to remain who you are, to stay true to your identity in a world that’s ought to get you lost in one of it’s crooks here or there, you have to build some kind of fortress around your thoughts and also your heart, but the world wasn’t what drove me to be an impregnable personality, growing up i never hesitated to take initiative, i never second guess any of my activities, i didn’t fear people or society, on the contrast, i apposed the narratives, the rules, and all the traditions and the stereotypes constructed by our pilfering society, what was it then that drove me to live inside a fortress?, it was someone rather small, much smaller than the world or society.
i was distorted from those thoughts by my father’s alarming advice he was giving me, he never contrived my way of acting, and it always seemed peculiar to me how i never contrived his, he wants to protect me even from the speck of a dust, he knows i would go on exploring that speck of dust, not gaining anything but a sneeze, because it was too small to explore anyway, but i was never afraid to sneeze if it meant a new adventure.
inside the bookshop, there was a slender woman trying too hard to sell off a book to a customer, as it seems to me neither the customer nor the bookshop woman knew anything about books, me and my father went in different directions, i guess i intrigued his old habits of long reads, old habits die hard they say, if he could just take a moment, forget his job, the war and all the troubles, and just remember who he is, it is such a queer thing what hardship can make of a man.
Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance, the color of memory and a pocket art of Micheal Angelo’s paintings were in my hands, i embraced those books as if they were my first and last hope, i came up to the slender woman at the cashier, and handed her the books, “oh you like artists i see” i nodded my approval, i just wanted to pay and get out of her sight for her sight wasn’t that reassuring, me and my father stepped out of the bookshop with the books in my hand, i looked at him and said ” you know, right now i’m the happiest person on earth”, he turned to me with wondering eyes and said ” being the happiest person on earth is quit the statement, now why are you? ” , true-hearted i answered ,” because books are what makes me this happy” , finally he answered
” if i ever knew that i would have filled you up with books”