2008•03•27 ~ Zahra at Rest
This is an excerpt from a new project called: "Zahra at rest." It's a very close-to-the-bone narrative right now...I have no idea if it will stretch out and breathe itself into a full-fledged novel but the pieces all seem to be coming. Somewhere in this narrative, the following line will appear: "I’m almost forty years old and I’ve been tired for the past ten, he thinks. I haven’t felt rested for ten years."
Book club was really fine on Wednesday but I fear I over-stayed my welcome. We talked until 11:45 p.m – about almost everything, including the book. Apologies to you women who read. I stayed too long but you were very entertaining, and gracious. Thanks for having me over.
Zahra at rest
What time is it? You have no idea. You’re barely awake, living a dream-like reality, sitting in the kitchen, with your sister – also half-asleep – and your mother, who is steely eyed and certain. “You have to see this,” she says. “It’s part of life. It’s beautiful.” There’s a quart sealer with a square of mesh affixed to the opening sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. Inside, is a twig with a cocoon and the cocoon is stirring. Something’s moving. This is metamorphosis, though your mother does not use this word. She simply says; this is amazing. Insists you stay awake and watch – tells you what’s happening. This caterpillar wove this cocoon, and is now transformed into a different creature. From crawling along branches and across leaves of trees, to crawling out of this cocoon and flying. You live this dream time and watch as some sort of butterfly emerges from the cocoon. Once the butterfly is out, you and your sister are allowed to go back to bed. You’re hardly blown away by this. It’s interesting but it’s so late and you’re barely there. Your mother tucks you in, gives you a kiss, and pulls the door to your bedroom almost shut, so a sliver of hallway light cuts into the room – penetrates into the darkness. Only years later do you begin to speculate about where your father was. You can’t recall. Was he travelling? Or was he in bed? Thirty years later, this question will become a small unsolvable mystery.
In the morning, you remember the metamorphosis as an ultra-lucid dream. It makes wonder in you. It changes you in small undeniable ways. There’s no retreating from this sort of awe. You move forward from this point with awe woven into the fabric of your life. It’s a silver wire in a sutra. As you drift into sleep, you have no clue how this middle of the night adventure will affect the years ahead.
What does Zahra do then? She probably steps out onto the back deck and lights a cigarette. Perhaps she’s thinking this was a brilliant stroke on her part, that she was being a good parent by insisting her kids experience this transformation. She wants her kids to know about the wonder of life. She has no idea how this happens – how a caterpillar can weave a cocoon and then emerge a butterfly. Zahra takes the time to make herself a screwdriver before going out on the deck; she free-pours cheap vodka over ice and adds orange juice. Stirs it together with a spoon. Rinses the spoon, dries it, and puts it back into the drawer. She has no idea why the spoon gets washed and dried and returned. Most people, she supposes, would have left the spoon on the counter, or sitting in the bottom of the sink. Zahra shrugs. It’s not like he’s here. He’s on the road, her absent husband, being a travelling salesman, making a living. He missed this. He missed wonder on their children’s tired faces. She feels sorry for him. He misses so much.
It’s just after two in the morning. Zahra is sitting in an Adirondack chair, or a close facsimile of an Adirondack chair, which she put together herself. Faint stars swirl in the sky above the city. She’s on her third screwdriver. It wasn’t her intention to wake the kids up to watch this butterfly come into being. She’d been going to let the cat in and only glanced at the jar. There was the struggle to become and she instantly knew the kids had to see this, even if it took all night. She looks up into the sky. There is no moon. She’s lonely. But her mind will not articulate this feeling of emptiness, of something-missing, as lonely. She translates this loneliness as sadness. She’d love to call one of her sisters but it’s after 3 a.m. in Saskatchewan. The sisters always had a story or a joke – usually something dirty. Two of the sisters were in Moose Jaw and one was in Mossbank. She could use a story tonight - something to take her away from thinking about him. She doesn’t want to think about him tonight. She doesn’t want to look for that tipping point when bullying, controlling behaviour became normal for him. She wants to leave these thoughts for other nights; for nights when there are no miracles of life. He’s away. He’s on the road. He won’t be home for a week. It’s okay to be happy tonight, and she’s got nothing to complain about, really. They have a beautiful house, and plenty of food, two healthy kids, and they are able to give something back to the community. All marriages have problems. None are perfect. She wonders where he is exactly – if there’s some woman out there, or a bunch of women scattered along his line. Zahra leans back into the chair and breathes deeply.
There’s a humid edge to the air, and something is blooming. Is it the apple tree? Has the neighbour’s apple tree flowered?
3 Comments
1. deb had this to say: Mar 28, 2008 ~ 06:44 ~ #
You didn’t stay too long, we had a great time. It was lovely to meet you and we’ve never talked about a book so much.
You are always welcome at our book club and I was serious when I invited your wife to join us.
2. mary had this to say: Mar 28, 2008 ~ 08:36 ~ #
this is getting better every time…i like the apple tree at the end, was it there before? did i miss it?
m.
3. Adam Snider had this to say: Mar 28, 2008 ~ 13:06 ~ #
I am continually amazed by the quality of your writing, even in its early stages, Thomas. I look forward to read the Columbus book when it’s sold and published, and now I’m looking forward to Zahra at rest, as well.