06-14-2020, 10:31 PM
Nika's playful answer soothed away some of the trepidation. Some of it, anyway. Those slashes had run deep, scars still only partially healed.
Thank God for mama and papa. And for Grigor, her brother. Standing in the rain, overwhelming shame and fear deadening her arm. Try as she might, she could not seem to lift it to knock.
Tiny lights twinkled through the cut glass of the door. Between the water in her eyes and the distortion, nothing was recognizable. They seemed cold and infinitely far away, stars lost in a dark sky.. She had come that far, standing on the stoop of her family home, bags in hand. Only that far.
She wasn't sure how long she had stood there, soaked to the skin by the never ending downpour, her tears mingled among the rain.
But they had known. Somehow they had known. The door opened and there was papa, his eyes taking in the truth at once, massive arms bringing her into his embrace. Mama crying with joy as she descended on her with a blanket of love.
And her little brother Grigor, still a kid in her eyes despite his 19 years- the one who would bother or tease her out of sheer boredom- taking her a large towel and draping it around her, finding her bags to take to her childhood room, and then disappearing, drawing her a warm bath, she later discovered.
Home again, to heal in safety. It had been only a year ago. Just a year. Yesterday, really. A lifetime. An eternity.
She breathed dispelling her nervousness. Nika was not Laila. She hoped. Prayed.
She had Nika sit, one of the buildings framing her and dug into her purse. Old habits. Always a pencil somewhere.
And she began. The sketch wasn't about fidelity to a single moment. It was trying to find the deeper truth. Who was this girl? And to capture that in a moment.
The quiet stretched out. "Tell me about your trip. What was the best thing you did and saw?" A small smile. "Or ate?" Her voice would soothe her and help her find what she sought.
Thank God for mama and papa. And for Grigor, her brother. Standing in the rain, overwhelming shame and fear deadening her arm. Try as she might, she could not seem to lift it to knock.
Tiny lights twinkled through the cut glass of the door. Between the water in her eyes and the distortion, nothing was recognizable. They seemed cold and infinitely far away, stars lost in a dark sky.. She had come that far, standing on the stoop of her family home, bags in hand. Only that far.
She wasn't sure how long she had stood there, soaked to the skin by the never ending downpour, her tears mingled among the rain.
But they had known. Somehow they had known. The door opened and there was papa, his eyes taking in the truth at once, massive arms bringing her into his embrace. Mama crying with joy as she descended on her with a blanket of love.
And her little brother Grigor, still a kid in her eyes despite his 19 years- the one who would bother or tease her out of sheer boredom- taking her a large towel and draping it around her, finding her bags to take to her childhood room, and then disappearing, drawing her a warm bath, she later discovered.
Home again, to heal in safety. It had been only a year ago. Just a year. Yesterday, really. A lifetime. An eternity.
She breathed dispelling her nervousness. Nika was not Laila. She hoped. Prayed.
She had Nika sit, one of the buildings framing her and dug into her purse. Old habits. Always a pencil somewhere.
And she began. The sketch wasn't about fidelity to a single moment. It was trying to find the deeper truth. Who was this girl? And to capture that in a moment.
The quiet stretched out. "Tell me about your trip. What was the best thing you did and saw?" A small smile. "Or ate?" Her voice would soothe her and help her find what she sought.