Displaced

hanzla

,United Kingdom

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Displaced Commercial-bright sheets of colour coat the walls of my class room. A false homeliness protrudes through the childish images on the walls; a homeliness nonetheless. Morning dimly rises. I catch sight of the first flickers of sunlight, blazing from behind the corners of mist-filled cloud; its rays somersaulting gymnastically. This glimmer transports me back to another existence. Back to where the same sun and the same rays pulsated unevenly through a different landscape. Back to the clement pressure of her fingers over my fingers and the fleshy shield that was her palm over mine. Mother was unique. Mother would smile, hold me by the hand, and take me on one of her noon tours of the city, her hair catching an occasional flicker from the ascending sun and drawing envious looks from the store holders we would pass. The kebab shop men would call us to their threshold and sometimes we would accept their offer, sinking our teeth into layers of delicately marinated meats. A silent home would always greet our return. I would tiptoe through the hall, creep up on father who sat in his rocking chair; always seeming to have “just fallen asleep”, and either I would jump on his lap, or he would surprise me by sweeping my feet off the floor and pulling me into a responsive chest. An activist. Opposed to the regime. Proposed to freedom. A dangerous man to have around. They killed him. Mother followed. A melodious, motored ice-cream van trundles through the streets of my new world. The other children are drawn to the window in wonderment, their minds sliding into an ecstasy of melting, sugared syrups and toppled cones. Teacher smiles at me, the only child to have retained a seat. Another opportunity to try to break through my frozen veil to the outside world. She crouches beside me. Flings open pages. Points at large fonts. Admires heavy outlined illustrations. Leaves me to resume the class, my window view reimbursed. A returned friend’s elbow jabs hard. Apologies, then laughing, then more laughing until it seems we neither of us can stop. Like that. One emboldened glance at my hysterical friend, my perplexed teacher, my new acrylic yet un-judgemental home. Displaced? Yes. Re-homed? Definitely. I move on. The same warmth of holding hands with mother. The past in one, the future in the other.