At two-thirty after midnight, the rain was intense. I love the rain. It was less harsh when the rain dropped on the roof of the house.
During past winters, upon waking to the rain’s voice, the first thing I would do was to reach the window and immerse my hand in the rainwater.
When my students expressed fear of its sound, often accompanied by thunder, I would reassure them, describing it as an affectionate presence. “Extend your hands and experience it for yourself,” I would tell them.
Today’s rain was unfamiliar; its sound harsh and distant from home and the classroom.
Much like the hesitancy in children, I was scared to open the window and extend my hand outside.
I cannot get any sleep to ease my anxious mind.
In an attempt to soothe myself, I visualised an old picture of the rain. As I cautiously extended my hand out of the window, the rain revealed its familiar, affectionate nature, and I couldn’t help but smile at the reminiscent image.
An explosion happened nearby.
I withdrew my hand quickly like I was stung by a fire, wiped it, and hid it in the bed.
The sounds are very close.
The street is dark.
Mayday:
A plea: Come on, Dad, quickly.
Agony: Alright, I will get there quickly.
The simple light of the phone.
A man: I will carry the girl and give you a ride.
Refusal: No, Dad, I want you to take me to the hospital.
Noises and screaming in the street.
I’m afraid to go back to the window.
The sirens of the ambulance.
The darkness becomes red.
The sound of rain became very distant.
A man: Take this woman; she is still alive.
The darkness becomes red.
A man: He died, save those who are still alive. I will take him to the hospital.
The darkness becomes burning red.
A man: There is no way from here; the street is narrow, use the other one.
The darkness becomes more red; my heart trembles.
I wipe my hands of the rainwater.
We want another hand to remove all of this, O God!
At the onset of displacement, the war brought me together with a woman who suffers from hearing loss, reliant on
a headset.
During each bombardment, she would wearily turn to her grandchildren and ask, “Where is this sound?” Their collective response would be a resigned, “We don’t know.”
The sense of ennui would intensify as she proclaimed, “All of this because I cannot hear; you are lying to me!”
In a burst of frustration, she would abruptly yank the headset from her ear with a trembling hand, declaring in a voice verging on a scream, “I do not want to hear anything; this is better.”
I yearn for a moment of her boredom now, for the question remains unanswered: Did a kindergarten with displaced children provoke the wrath of the plane, so it killed them all?
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(Published with permission of the poet)
