NIGHT GATHERING – WINTRYPOET

NIGHT GATHERING

Habib Dabajeh

CHAPTER 1

Whether I was dreaming or awake was a mystery that eluded me, a haze enveloping my mind as I stood on Morross Street. The air around me was thick with a palpable sense of sorrow; It was a mild October evening, and your passing was barely two months ago. It felt as if my entire world was crumbling, piece by fragile piece, leaving only an echo of what once was. I was still in deep mourning, my heart heavy with the weight of loss. Yet, despite this disorientation, I was fully alert and cautious as I stood in the familiar surroundings of Morross. I started to wander down the street, my footsteps crunching on fallen leaves. A calming melody of windswept trees whispered through the branches overhead, a stark contrast to the unease bubbling in my stomach. With each step, I sensed someone, or something, was close by, shadowing me. It wasn’t a visual presence, more like a prickle on the back of my neck, a feeling of being watched. From this distance, the house looked abandoned, but a fleeting movement caught my eye—a dark silhouette of a man was making his way slowly up the driveway, almost gliding rather than walking. Cautiously the silhouette moved, turning and looking up and down the driveway as if the surroundings familiar to him.

I picked up my pace as my heart raced, and I was overcome with a sense of foreboding. The streetlights cast long, skeletal shadows, distorting the familiar into something alien. I lived on this street, I knew every crack in the sidewalk, every gnarled branch of every tree, yet tonight it all felt…off. There wasn’t a car on the road; no other pedestrians. An unnatural stillness had consumed the air. I watched, heart hammering, and a chill raced through me, quickening my heartbeat as an unshakeable feeling of foreboding washed over me. The man stood silently and looked at the house that had vibrated with his presence. My house. The house I’d grown up in, and then he turned heading toward the garage with measured caution. The calm melodies of the trees suddenly sounded mocking, and the feeling of being watched intensified. The silhouette’s purposeful movements had drawn me in, and morbid curiosity kept me rooted to the spot. I felt compelled to know more, to understand what was happening on Morross Street, even as every instinct screamed at me to flee. The dream-like state threatened to pull me under, but the fear was sharp and real, a jolt of adrenaline that kept me tethered to this strange reality. The garage, now silent and unyielding, held the answer, or perhaps a danger I wasn’t prepared to face. I just didn’t know which.

CHAPTER 2

I reached the house and gazed for a long time at the front porch, the very same porch where he’d spent countless summer evenings, laughing, smoking, drinking tea, and telling stories until the fireflies winked out. The house was silent, devoid of the comforting hum of life. A sudden gust of wind rattled through my hair, as the silhouette vanished quickly toward the backyard. Had I imagined it? Was it just a trick of the light and the heightened emotions brought on by grief? I took a deep breath, trying to calm my frantic thoughts.

The white-pawed Persian lounged gracefully in its favorite spot, as it did every night. And with a graceful hop, she landed on the old chair where he used to sit. Then, with a slow, deliberate turn of her head, she peered through the window, her emerald eyes shining in the afternoon light. She surveyed the inside of my house. With keen eyes, it gazed longingly at the door, fully aware that soon its beloved human would arrive bearing treats like every night before. This routine had become a cherished ritual, and the Persian had grown accustomed to the generous offerings of its beloved companion.

From a distance, I saw an elderly woman approaching. Her face, etched with the stories of time, felt oddly familiar. She walked with a slight stoop, yet her eyes held a gentle spark. She reached the side door, her knuckles rapping against the aged wood. There was Silence. She knocked again, a softer sound this time, but still, no answer. Our eyes met then, and recognition flickered within me. It wasn’t a sharp recall, more like a faded photograph – a face from my distant past, from the hazy days of early youth. This was the angel taken from us by a cruel and mischievous crime during the dark days that still haunt me. Her kind eyes softened further, crinkling at the corners. Instead of speaking, she offered me a warm, comforting smile, one that seemed to hold a thousand unspoken words. Then, without another glance at the unresponsive door, she turned and gracefully made her way to the backyard, her presence leaving a quiet peace in its wake.

The porch light flickered, casting long, dancing shadows as I blinked, trying to grasp the scene. Just as my mind started to decipher the figures circling the property – their movements almost ritualistic, their faces obscured by the gloom – another woman appeared from the night. She walked hurriedly towards the house, her pace almost frantic. She looked at me, her eyes red-rimmed, a tearful smile gracing her lips. And she knew who I was. A strange sense of kinship washed over me, a feeling deeper than mere recognition, yet her face was utterly unfamiliar. Throughout my life, I had never encountered or seen this blood acquaintance, yet she seemed to possess an innate understanding of me as if our ancestral lineage had woven a silent thread connecting us across time and distance. It was as if, despite the absence of physical meetings, the echoes of our shared heritage resonated within them, allowing them to know my essence in ways I could not have anticipated. Suddenly, a voice called from the backyard, breaking the moment. She hurried off to join the other figures gathering there.

I cautiously moved, my gaze darting between her and the other enigmatic figures. Heart racing, I crept up the driveway, my mind swirling with thoughts of the two sisters and a brother who seemed to be circling the property, drawn by an invisible force. As I approached the back lawn, the sounds of soft laughter and light-hearted murmurs floated through the air, mingling with the subtle fragrance of blossoms. The pear tree, a magnificent silhouette against the dusky sky, was exactly as I remembered it. Ripe and blossoming, its branches heavy with fruit, shining pears glowed like tiny lanterns. There, beneath the pear tree, stood a vision that struck me like an unexpected wave: a family of three, a brother and his two sisters, engaged in cheerful conversation.

CHAPTER 3

My Father leaned back against the trunk, and His sisters, sat on either side of him, their heads close, their laughter echoing in the night air. That old, comforting cigarette smell, the one that always seemed to cling to my father and the memories of our shared childhood summers, filled the air. For a moment, time seemed to fold in on itself, and I was a child once more. The pear tree, with its laden branches, was a silent witness to this nightly reunion, a symbol of our enduring connection.

A soft, golden light bathed the garden, illuminating a scene that defied logic. My family, long gone, were gathered in a circle, their faces aglow with a gentle warmth. And my curiosity was broken. It shattered against the sheer impossibility of it all. They only looked at me and smiled a serene, silent acknowledgment. No speech was passed between us. To speak to them, I could not; a lump formed in my throat, words frozen. To move towards them, I couldn’t. My feet were rooted to the spot, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Then I saw Him stand up. My father, rose gracefully, his gaze not on his family, but it was toward the garden, or rather what now remains of it. Once, it had been a riot of life, a vibrant tapestry woven with the green tomato vines that seemed to reach for the heavens and the sprawling, emerald carpets of cucumber plants. Now, it was a parched canvas of cracked earth and brittle stems, a ghost of the abundance it had once known.

My father’s face etched with the deep lines of time and sorrow, moved slowly through the ravaged space. His feet crunched on the dry soil, each step a whisper of what had been. He remembered the days, not so long ago, when the tomato plants, laden with their crimson fruits, had been so tall he’d needed a ladder to pick them. He could almost smell the sweet, earthy fragrance of the ripening cucumbers, their knobby forms heavy on the vine. His fingers, gnarled and stiff with age, twitched as he recalled the satisfaction of gathering the harvest, the sheer joy of sharing it with his beloved family. He reached the far edge of the garden, where the plum and peach trees had once stood, their branches intertwined in a ballet of blossom and fruit. He used to sit beneath their shade with his cigarette and tea and listen to the lazy hum of bees. They had been his pride, the heart of his garden. Now, only the memories remain of their trunks, stark and unforgiving against the pale sky.

He sank to his knees and ran a trembling hand over the parched ground, his heart a heavyweight in his chest. He pressed his face into his palms, fighting back the tears, but they came, hot and salty, escaping his clenched fists and falling onto the unforgiving soil. He began to weep, his body shaking with silent sobs. He allowed the tears to flow freely, knowing they were all he had left. He imagined, with a desperate hope that bordered on madness, that his tears were a kind of life-giving elixir. He watered the dusty earth with his grief, soaking the barren landscape with his sorrow. He pictured the tomatoes, rising again, their leaves reaching out for the sun, their fruits glowing like jewels. He envisioned the cucumbers, their tendrils creeping across the ground, their green flesh plump with life. He saw the peach tree, its limbs heavy with the golden fruit, and the plum tree, its branches laden with the deep purple globes. He closed his eyes, clinging to these imagined images with all his remaining strength. He stayed there for a long time, his silent tears a mournful rain upon the dry earth. He felt a flicker of hope, a desperate plea to the universe, that his grief, his love, could somehow bring back what was lost. A desperate plea, a raw expression of loss, a potent fertilizer composed of a love that had no end.

The magical gathering continued a tableau of love and loss, and I, an unwilling, silent observer. I don’t know how long he stayed there, lost in his memories and his grief, but eventually, the chill of the evening air seeped through my veins. At that moment, as the weight of reality pressed down upon me, I felt as if my own heart was cracking open. A heavy hush enveloped the night, punctuated only by the faint murmurs of both my aunts gathered nearby. I stood silently, watching him as he gazed out over the once vibrant blooms and lush greenery, his expression distant and contemplative. After what felt like an eternity, he slowly turned to face me. His eyes carried an unfathomable depth, revealing unspoken thoughts and emotions. His body aching, his eyes red and swollen. Despite the sadness lingering between us, he managed to muster a forced smile. It was the kind of smile that tried to mask the pain, yet somehow, I seemed to acknowledge it. He nodded his head slightly looking at me, a gesture meant to reassure a saddened heart that everything will soon be whole again.

Suddenly, I find myself awakened in heavy sweat. I rolled over, a single tear escaping my eye, and it seeped into my pillow. I rose up in bed, the mattress creaking beneath my weight. The images of the lost garden are still vivid in my mind. I tried again to grasp the warmth of being in the presence of both my aunts, but it faded like a dream. Then, I realized with a crushing clarity that nothing would ever be whole again.