Before there was anything, there was the dream.
Before the long trip back to England, before I knew how many trees fenced my Grandpa’s compound-the circle of trees whose leaves when tossed into wind, bow in unison –there was the dream. And as far back as I can remember, the dream was there, It was always there and still is.
It is not the dream of being in a big house with big cars, not my casual dream of being a grown up. I was in a room, surrounded by walnut bookcases, filled to the mouth with books, different books, old worn tattered, new and some with hard covers.
I held a pen that danced steadily to the rhythm of my hand movement, like in a duet with my right hand. I sat on a chair facing a table, a yellow oak reading table- a gift from my grandfather. The room was dark and I drank in its serene silence.
I could write easier but for my burden. The only warm heavy part of me was the little book, which I held tight to my heart.
I knew the book was a burden, mine to finish. It belongs to me; but felt the urge to destroy it at the same time. I ran to the riverbank.
The gushing noise of water got louder as I struggled down the muddy footpath. I caught my breath with fear when I saw the river. It was broader than it had ever been before; buffeting the trunks of the trees high on the banks, it had burst its course. The fallen tree across the river, which we used as a bridge, was gone, now hidden by boiling depth of rushing water. I gave a little cry, which I cannot even hear above the noise of the storm, for I do not know, I am throwing away my pen.
This is too much for me, the fresh obstacles on top of my tears and the pain in my heart and the tiredness of my hand from its dance side to side on the paper. I walked to the river and held the book under the turbulent waters.
I watched it flow on in the river
Wandering without any owner
It was soaked and in minutes it disappeared.