Bella Voce

to share, to hear, to listen, to discover, to learn . . . continuously

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Location: California, United States

Yes, "bellevoce" does not match the title of my blog. This near-Italian username stems from a play on words of my childhood nickname of Elle in combination with the Italian translation of "beautiful voice (bella voce)." My mother coined this name for my first email address and I have come to love it for its root in my Italian heritage and remembrance of my childhood.

Sunday, September 09, 2007

قاصدک

(Ghasedak)

The warm afternoon air lifts her white skirts up like wings, but she does not mind. Instead, she delights in the pleasure of the freely moving air currents as they whisk her away. To and fro, amidst tree leaves and pollen as her company, the breeze carries her through the outskirts of the city. She smiles excitedly to herself as her journey begins.

She looks down at the city she has only imagined of earlier. She has so many people to choose from. As she scans the park below, she sees from afar an older woman approaching a younger woman. The breeze draws her nearer and she watches the two embrace and greet each other with kisses. She urges the wind to set her upon the older woman’s shoulder, so that perhaps the woman’s daughter might tell her the good news of a future grandchild. But the breeze continues on and drops her not. She has forgotten that she holds no power of her own.

Her invisible path carries on, and though saddened by the opportunity denied, she looks expectantly ahead for the person she shall grace. The flow of air gusts a little through the streets now and she is pushed through the city and bumped up against walls. With a swirling burst, she slams into the collar of a gruff man’s suit jacket and gets caught in the bristles of his wily beard. She looks through his mass of beard to his face in order to catch the gleam of hope in his eye that she has been waiting to see. She wonders if perhaps her touch might mean the life of a family member or maybe a financial boost. Instead of treating her blessing with a look of gratefulness, the man mutters under his breath and brushes her off without a second thought.

With the downward stroke of his hand, her life seems at an end as a pool of water in the street looms before her as an ocean. Yet her course does not include that plunge, as the breeze picks her up again and returns to its course.

Though scared, she is indignant at the man’s forgetfulness of lore. She had only desired good, but now, slightly bereft of hope for these people she seeks to bless, only flies on because of the prodding of the wind. She hopes that the breeze may return her home, or just out of the city, that she may beget her own life from the rich soil. But the wind carries on.

An hour passes and she only stares distantly at the city below. It holds no beauty to her homeland of nature as its novelty has worn off now. Her tour progresses at varying altitudes until in one instant, her whole world goes black. She feels no caress of the wind, but only the grimy, compression of unnatural darkness. Slowly, however, a sliver of light opens and floods her prison. She sees the face of a young child with wisps of hair the color of the grain of her homeland and eyes the hue of the air which carries her.

Despite the fact of the youth of the child, she rages in her mind at his forcible capture of her blessing. Her mission is to grace, not ransom off her blessing. And with the advancement of her anger, the child begins to whisper in a language she has never heard before. It is more staccato and not as elegantly fluid as the one she knows. But with the words comes the quiet sound of earnest yearning. She turns her gaze into the eyes of the child, eyes filled with that same hope that she has longed to see on this journey. Despite the language barrier, she hears in his meekest, softest, kindest whisper the desires and secrets of his heart. Her own heart melts at this wonderful new experience, one she could never have known the joy of on her own. With the culmination of a toothy smile of pure optimism, the grubby hands release her into the torrent of air currents and wave goodbye.

She does not know what his words meant other than a secret shared, a wish whispered. She wonders at the flight of fate, from passing the women, to the slough of the man, to the capture from the child. Not only did her touch bless his young life, but more importantly, his hope blessed her own.



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6 Comments:

Blogger bellevoce said...

So, I hope that you all know me well enough now that you can guess that there is something else behind this short story. I'd like to hear your opinions before I give my intent.

September 09, 2007 6:55 PM  
Blogger spacedlaw said...

That's a lovely story. I like the idea that the muse has no real control on her destiny.

September 12, 2007 1:50 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

What a beautiful and uplifting view of our world and the often unnoticed or unappreciated powers that sustain us.

September 13, 2007 11:41 AM  
Blogger spacedlaw said...

To answer your question (Blogger is quite awkward to do this), I came here via a link on LitPark.

September 13, 2007 10:23 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I found you through your Mom. She urged our writing group to read your prompt. I say Thank You. What a beautiful story and I do urge you to go on. Be taken by that breeze too.
Aleta Jacobson

September 14, 2007 10:19 AM  
Blogger Me said...

Wow, I'm incredibly impressed.

At first I thought it was a woman in a white dress falling from a building. Then I thought it was an angel falling from heaven though my final guess would be a single white feather, either way it was so elegantly written.

Keep it up!

November 26, 2007 5:18 PM  

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