I ran from the house in an early summer morning. Only chickens scratching the dirt of the village streets and Sheikh Ali on his skinny donkey, said no good morning nor looked down. Passed my school, in three hours Fatma will be bullying someone else. In the small canal separating the houses from the fields, a lonely cricket sang to the humid long night or to me. I think it remembers me since that day my dad slapped my face shouting You are a disgrace, never play with boys!. Hiked up my dress and ran fast to the date palm where he showed off his handstands and climbing skills. It’s where i saw him for the last time before he was forced to leave school to work on his uncles land far away. I ran and ran through the golden dry wheat fields like the free black stallion in the movies. I ran and ran till i slipped face plant on a bed of stalks. Spited the dirt and tears from my mouth and opened my eyes to a load of cigarettes butt, empty green bottles, and a box of matches. Slowly stood up with the box in my hand; spited the rest of the dirt, and lit a match. The crackle of the fire ran after me, but I ran and ran never looked back. Diary of a Date Palm, E.K
Posted on: Sun, 04 Jan 2015 06:27:04 +0000
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