Note: In Kansas City Review volume 21, we printed an incorrect draft of this story. This is the update, final (and beautiful) version of the story.
Silence with its excellent syntax is so real, rhythm compensates breathe when the stream of our thoughts shapes our lives, we are the same and always seek each other when silence between us dies, and the clouds above us form as the moon rises, we try to give them a sense of purpose, we know that the messenger with the bad news won’t come, tomorrow, there is no bad news after this stillness in the world, anymore, but emptiness, a wind, as our memory, will vanish as the storm arrives, and the empty world around us — meaningless, cannot return. I still remember, there was an ocean, right behind that constellation over there, named as an Ocean of Breath, we all lived out there when we were young, and the breath and thoughts strayed transparent, and there was a tree ragged by the prayers, shadowy followed in our wishes, shaking with hope before the end, when those seconds – always starving lodgers of time, took our wishes away, leaving the myriad small sparks trying to shine a light in our hearts, as the precious stone in dirt cannot be consumed by slow decay, not even dragged by the force of doubt, as the mirages of clear water across dusty horizons ripe expectations just over the streets, right there. An old photograph makes us chuckle, but now your smile has such a glare, I just can’t tell. This endless journey keeps me turning back to something forgotten, to something misplaced, keeps me turning back toward you.
Looking at the empty streets. Beauty needs to be seen. I know you are happy out thereon the other side of emptiness, yet the present is the choice which remains. In admiration, beauty, in poverty wealth, and in silence the sound, I will put the gun down; who stands beside me matters more. I’ll remember this second, on the other side of what was emptiness, I’ll remember this present, but the streets will be alive again, only that which needs to be seen will be, as this night, full of droplets of wishes is so calm, perhaps, behind every droplet is a microcosm of purest energy and behind that force, a window of hope, and behind each window a smile, and behind the ringing of laughter, a tender kiss — for is not beyond each kiss a breath which is the throbbing heart of life? — and there, right there beneath the rib cage, a wish, and deeper still, that lingering desire for a moment realized, and beyond, further beyond, the great flame which is eternity rekindled endlessly until we begin to believe we may be.
There was a street in my childhood, in Downtown Manhattan, that we called the Street of Wonders. Whatever you wanted, I mean really wanted, materialized for you in one second. Every secret wish was waiting to be revealed, to become true if you really wanted it.
I walked a lot out there when I was a kid, wishing for some miracles to happen. I found a very good watch one day and gave it to my father. I found a notebook with all the answers to the mathematics tests and gave it to my friend. We used it at school from time to time. We wished to see the baseball game with the Yankees right in our front yard, and really, the Yankees came to our yard and played the game right in our neighborhood; it was unforgettable. After that we wished to see the naked women, and to know the secret codes and all possible combinations of the safes at the Bank of America, to know the truth about Apollo 11, the Moon landing and Roswell, and to stop all the wars in the world and to play a guitar like Jimi Hendrix and even wished that every mother in the world remain alive forever young and beautiful. We believed that we should master the art of wonder and change the world, and one day, I found a puppy.
I called him Jerry. He was lilac, the unknown kind. I loved my puppy, but one night I lost him. He vanished. Everybody knew that the street was magical, something really was going on over there, but after that vanished puppy, I don’t know why, no one dared to make a wish until I saw her standing quietly in the dark with closed eyes whispering some words.
I asked her why she was alone at night. She opened her eyes and said that she came here many moons ago when no one was around and made a wish asking for a puppy, but the puppy never showed up. She said that she asked for a very rare color dog; a lilac puppy.
I didn’t say a word, I wanted to go and leave her alone, but I showed her the photograph of my lilac puppy. She went silent seeing that photograph of me and my dog; even her look changed as if she had guessed something. She gave me a very distant look, didn’t say a word, and then she went.
I don’t know what happened to her, I only know that after that night, the street was never the same again. There were no wonders, no wishes, and no miracles anymore.
Some say it is because childhood ended with that disappearing lilac puppy, but it doesn’t make sense; childhood can’t end without childhood, or that street, nothing makes sense.
And then one afternoon, when I grew up, I looked up to the sky and saw the clouds beyond the rooftops’ water towers in Lower Manhattan. One cloud was lilac, and resembled my dog, and another one was as round as that baseball when the Yankees came to play. The wind was blowing as if some familiar voice was singing to me, her voice from the other side of alone, from the other side of those clouds and the whole sky, my mother.
The End