Post by goldenmyst on Feb 4, 2019 19:24:58 GMT -6
Tangiers Afternoon
She breathes like the breeze in a tamarind grove upon his face. Her henna-dyed tresses drift by him like thunderclouds laced with lightning in the marketplace. They ignite memories of the Tangiers where once his rose glistened with pearls of dew born in desire.
She caressed his wrinkled body with fingers soft as rain and bathed him in her fountain of youth. With rose petal hands she washed him in sunlight and combed the snowy hair on the roof of his head in their May December love.
They met in the Casbah when he stepped down the stairs like Zeus descending Olympus. Her sisters were wrapped in burqas which covered all but their eyes and nose. His eyes intruded on them like a voyeur from a pagan land.
Those women darted like little birds back into their nest. They closed the window doors to ward off his prying eyes. He felt as though he was in a forbidden realm of feminine mystery which was just beyond his reach. Suddenly the window opened again. Her face peeked out with a tongue click beckoning him to taste the hidden heart of her womanhood. He gazed into her eyes and saw into the portals of her dark fury. She compelled him with the spell of her strangeness.
Each blink of her eyes sparked wonder in his western soul. She opened a door below and he found himself in a dark room scented with lemon. The sweet aroma engulfed him in citrus.
They were alone in her boudoir. She clicked her tongue and said, “Let us drink cardamom tea and let the hours slip by like seconds on the clock.” She unwrapped her burqa until her charcoal hair fell in waves down her cappuccino hued shoulders.
He said, “Why would a spring flower bestow her affections on a grey mop gent like me?”
“My endometriosis makes children giggling at your feet an impossibility. So I’m shooting for being the woman by your side as enough.”
“You made a good guess. I am too old for children. But I am never too old for good tea. Yours is the best.”
“Then drink up to your health! Of course, I also make baklava to die for. Oops, I should never mention sweets and death in the same sentence.”
“It was a good superlative. I look forward to the life of your pastry.”
“I also make a couscous topped with chicken which melts off the bone into your mouth.”
“Have mercy, you’ve won my heart. Sitting at your table will be a culinary paradise.”
The clatter of dishes becomes the music of their years. Each morning her muezzin song opens the day for this dreamer in a land which doesn’t feel so foreign anymore.
On the threshold of a casket, she whispers into his ear. “Take this vial of perfume with you. You’ll remember my tangy tongue whose taste splashed into you like freshly squeezed satsumas with the orange scent of our youth.” He emerges into the alley. Her scent follows him like a tangerine dream.
Her cherry blossom was plucked in pink of youth. Yet when he watches the women gather water from the well he sees her face in every woman who dips her pail and longs for her rosemary scent.
One afternoon, years past her passing, he is walking the streets of the city nicknamed, “Blue Pearl of Morocco” for its blue alleyways and blue-washed buildings. His feet take him down a blue alleyway but to his surprise, his heart turns into a crab digging into his chest. He makes the call to emergency services. While trying to describe to the operator his location he hears a voice he hasn’t heard for years. His deceased wife tells him, “It is alright John, I will help you. Here hold onto me.”
The operator says, “Who is that? I hear a woman’s voice. Why is she so calm?”
“She is someone I lost track of but everything is ok now. No need to send the ambulance.”
“Ma’am, please forget this happened. Just chalk it up to one of the mysteries of life” his wife says.
His wife takes the cell. “He just had a stumble. He is just fine. He’ll be going home with me.”
His wife hands the phone back to him. “I feel light as a cloud. This blue passage is like a corridor through the sky to heaven” he says.
His wife takes the cell, “You see, how could a sick man feel so heavenly?” She clicks off the cell. This phone call is recorded as a mystery of life which cannot be explained or understood for there is no corpse left as evidence. Only the phone is found lying on the blue painted doorway.
She breathes like the breeze in a tamarind grove upon his face. Her henna-dyed tresses drift by him like thunderclouds laced with lightning in the marketplace. They ignite memories of the Tangiers where once his rose glistened with pearls of dew born in desire.
She caressed his wrinkled body with fingers soft as rain and bathed him in her fountain of youth. With rose petal hands she washed him in sunlight and combed the snowy hair on the roof of his head in their May December love.
They met in the Casbah when he stepped down the stairs like Zeus descending Olympus. Her sisters were wrapped in burqas which covered all but their eyes and nose. His eyes intruded on them like a voyeur from a pagan land.
Those women darted like little birds back into their nest. They closed the window doors to ward off his prying eyes. He felt as though he was in a forbidden realm of feminine mystery which was just beyond his reach. Suddenly the window opened again. Her face peeked out with a tongue click beckoning him to taste the hidden heart of her womanhood. He gazed into her eyes and saw into the portals of her dark fury. She compelled him with the spell of her strangeness.
Each blink of her eyes sparked wonder in his western soul. She opened a door below and he found himself in a dark room scented with lemon. The sweet aroma engulfed him in citrus.
They were alone in her boudoir. She clicked her tongue and said, “Let us drink cardamom tea and let the hours slip by like seconds on the clock.” She unwrapped her burqa until her charcoal hair fell in waves down her cappuccino hued shoulders.
He said, “Why would a spring flower bestow her affections on a grey mop gent like me?”
“My endometriosis makes children giggling at your feet an impossibility. So I’m shooting for being the woman by your side as enough.”
“You made a good guess. I am too old for children. But I am never too old for good tea. Yours is the best.”
“Then drink up to your health! Of course, I also make baklava to die for. Oops, I should never mention sweets and death in the same sentence.”
“It was a good superlative. I look forward to the life of your pastry.”
“I also make a couscous topped with chicken which melts off the bone into your mouth.”
“Have mercy, you’ve won my heart. Sitting at your table will be a culinary paradise.”
The clatter of dishes becomes the music of their years. Each morning her muezzin song opens the day for this dreamer in a land which doesn’t feel so foreign anymore.
On the threshold of a casket, she whispers into his ear. “Take this vial of perfume with you. You’ll remember my tangy tongue whose taste splashed into you like freshly squeezed satsumas with the orange scent of our youth.” He emerges into the alley. Her scent follows him like a tangerine dream.
Her cherry blossom was plucked in pink of youth. Yet when he watches the women gather water from the well he sees her face in every woman who dips her pail and longs for her rosemary scent.
One afternoon, years past her passing, he is walking the streets of the city nicknamed, “Blue Pearl of Morocco” for its blue alleyways and blue-washed buildings. His feet take him down a blue alleyway but to his surprise, his heart turns into a crab digging into his chest. He makes the call to emergency services. While trying to describe to the operator his location he hears a voice he hasn’t heard for years. His deceased wife tells him, “It is alright John, I will help you. Here hold onto me.”
The operator says, “Who is that? I hear a woman’s voice. Why is she so calm?”
“She is someone I lost track of but everything is ok now. No need to send the ambulance.”
“Ma’am, please forget this happened. Just chalk it up to one of the mysteries of life” his wife says.
His wife takes the cell. “He just had a stumble. He is just fine. He’ll be going home with me.”
His wife hands the phone back to him. “I feel light as a cloud. This blue passage is like a corridor through the sky to heaven” he says.
His wife takes the cell, “You see, how could a sick man feel so heavenly?” She clicks off the cell. This phone call is recorded as a mystery of life which cannot be explained or understood for there is no corpse left as evidence. Only the phone is found lying on the blue painted doorway.
Everyone have a great weekend!!!!