The tragedy of… failure.


Bossa nova music was flowing listlessly in the air… he stretched again on the park bench and rested his feet on her lap. she lay her head back, and stared at the sky. the music was faint… and vaguely saying “silver jet… take me… I’m all set… take me… through the sky… fly me…”
they recognized the song, and together went in a reverie… holding hands, following the silver jet… “make this trip non-stop…”
they dozed off.
when he woke up, he saw her bent with concern over the morning paper again…
He smiled and said very calmly “I haven’t been there in a long time, I simply don’t know how people are there… give me the paper again. let me read it a second time.”
He read it a second time.
“well, yes” he says “I understand what you mean. this should be resolved internally. but I think it makes sense for everyone to cut their losses and move on… you know, sometimes I imagine having another war… looking back now, it all seems so romantic, not so deadly, and tender, as tender as our young years… although it might sound very sick and no one besides another Lebanese our age could come close to understand, but the sound of a Kalashnikov firing away in the distance is so soothing, so melancholic… the safety of home, the lonely soldier… all that… you know the war brought people together over and over… this is what civil wars are about.. it’s violent brutal love. so it’s fine, you see? we could still go. it’s us. this is who we are…”
She looked away… at the children, playing happily on the green. she remembered their own playgrounds back home, back then… she still remember. how happy they were with so little. he’s right, she thought… no one would understand how they used to value all what life offered… because, well, that was life for them, all in all. to be happy with one hour of TV when the house comes back to life when the electricity is back… to catch a glimpse of their favorite cartoon shows if they were lucky… if they were good. to have vacations during the winter time… and the spring time… and any time, really, when life became too unbearable and their home too dangerous so the family had to leave. ‘yeherbo’ was the term, she thought… but they always came back.
“how funny it would be to do it ourselves this time.” he said “stock food for the shelter. get water. blankets… do you think they still have shelters?”
She put the newspaper aside, carefully. pushed his feet back to the bench, gently. stood up and walked toward the children. suddenly, as if transformed into a little girl herself, she threw her arms up and prepared to catch the ball. she laughed and ran and made friends. she kept her tears in for later times to come. and knew that she was doing this for one last time.
He looked at her. idly, tenderly and couldn’t help but to smile…
The bossa nova music continued to float over their hearts… “silver jet… take me… I’m all set… take me…”
take me back…