Invisible Leavings

If I were a novice monk, abandoned by my father, this may be a letter I wrote to God on Father’s Day after some years of pondering the meaning of fatherhood and the flawed nature of all human relationships… Praise be to the Holy Father, the Giver, the Kind...the Lord of the Worlds. So, my Lord, we humans decided to have a Father’s Day to celebrate those paternal figures we hold dear and near. A day in which we honour all fathers alive, and remember those who passed. It's also a day for mourning those fathers we never knew, as well as those who’ve let us down. Those who stayed, and those who decided to leave us behind. This, my Lord, is a day most challenging for some of us. You see, my Lord, no father is perfect, and therein lies the problem. But then again, You already know that, don’t You? You made sure that no father is as perfect as You, and that no human could ever be as whole and complete as they ever need to be. You made us flawed, my Lord, and today I pau...

This was sometime during May 2018… So here’s the thing. I can’t remember the last time I was completely taken with a blondie. Oh wait, that was never actually. I’ve never, and I mean never, imagined I’d be attracted (and so much so for that matter) to someone so physically different and just totally on the opposite side of what i have so far thought of as my “type”. I admit I’m surprised at myself. But there’s no denying it - I’m hooked. May have been since moment one, come to think of it. Confidence, a clear voice, humor, mischief, and oh those beautiful eyes may be some of what caught my eye that night at the party. But since I’ve got closer to this person, more things rise to the surface, such as maybe a hint of kindness and some deliciously boyish gestures. It doesn’t feel like a rhetoric question when he asks how I’ve been - it could be just politeness but I don’t know...it feels real. And one day while we were talking about work, I stupidly locked onto his eyes fo...

The smell of the Arm's salt wafts stubbornly on the breeze, through the medley of scents emanating from the food stalls lining the waterfront. Of all those aromas, she craves the salt the most; it's a tantalizing reminder of Alexandria's Mediterranean. Even despite the Arm's stately calm being sharply at odds with the raging waves she knew were crashing relentlessly on the coast of Egypt's northern city. She envisioned the shape of the water beneath that calm surface, and wo ndered if it possibly belied a swift current. A passion for human companionship, a desire to talk perhaps. A desire to entrap, ensnare and seduce. A cold, casual slap after you've trusted the warmth of that salt on the air. The horizon held a weak morning light. In her Book, sleep was described as a "small death". Despite that darker name, that was an embrace she knew was kind, and her dreams rather more lit than most mornings. Dreams can be beautiful, when they're y...

There’s something about contemplating your hands that is profoundly grounding. They’re such a delicate part of your body, when you think how easily they can be injured for instance. Yet they do such monumental tasks every day. The phrase “prepared with loving hands” comes to mind, and the first picture in my head is: meals. But it's not just the pretty pancakes, pastas and salads of our everyday meals that I envision; there’s also the scald of hot water during the first seconds of dishwashing before I’ve balanced the water’s temperature, the scrape of the knife’s edge against my nails if my hands are shaking after a long day at work, or the hiss of a paper cut on my finger tip when I pull out aluminum sheets too fast during the early morning scramble out of the house. I look at my cuticles now, my knuckles, my shapeless nails, the remnants of bruises and cuts and burns all over the skin of my hands. This is skin that has seen better days, and will continue to see more hards...

2:00 am: I'm rocking my five month old baby to stop her fussing, which she is threatening to turn into a full-fledged shrieking. I'm in the living room with the door closed and I keep giving it furtive glances to check that it stays closed. It is important that it stays closed. Because if that door is closed, then so is his - the kids' bedroom that he took to sleeping in.  He cannot be woken. Please God he cannot be woken. 2:30 am: It's hot in the living room, and I'm feeling stifled with all the energy coming from the TV. The sound is turned down and the baby is not fussing anymore but she's wide awake and expects all the attention in the world. If I get too absorbed in the show, she makes sure she is loud enough to regain my focus. It's getting harder to stay awake… Focus on her, I tell myself, stay awake, keep the doors closed, hang on, she'll get sleepy soon. 3:11 am: I changed her diaper. Again. Back on the...

If spaces had names, would ours be love Have you walked our steps and cried my love Have you looked at my empty spot and wondered Where I've been and where I've wandered That corner there where you whispered words Where you stripped me raw and wrapped me close Was that an eternal hiding place For our lonely ripple in time and space Have you tread the woods where our fires lit In search of sweet memories Were we insane to reach for the stars In a universe of endless fantasies And time and time again my love I'd hear the river's endless flow And stand reminded of your heart In a world where only dreams can go (c)

Anai’s forearms felt like lead after hours of wringing papyrus. She had to squeeze the excess water out of the raw form of the precious plant’s reeds, that were meant to be slapped together and dried into smooth sheets of writing scrolls for the scribes. She must keep up the momentum if they were to make the deadline set by the chief - as a maid of Hathor she cannot falter, for hers was a position of honor among the other girls, being the sister of the last Bride of the Nile. For the 18 years that she had lived, Anai had been groomed to be a servant of the goddess Hathor - the divine lady of music, fertility and love. She would have to serve her in whichever way the High Priestess of Memphis ordained proper, and for the next two months such honor entailed the patient act of collecting the grown papyrus reeds off the eastern banks of the Nile and wringing them out such that they were damp enough to hammer flat by the next maid in the operation line.   All the girls were dressed...