The Last Scent of Flowers
She was on her knees, gasping for breath, sweating and mumbling. She tried to call out for someone to rescue her, trying to form words, but they were all gone. Now she realized that the last and soft summer breeze had blown them away.
The draught felt freezing on her bare knees and she felt utterly alone.
When the last wave of agony had drowned her body, she was cowering and panting, but finally calm. These panic attacks seemed to become more intense and frequent the longer she
stayed in this godforsaken place. Sophia rose and poured some water in a saucepan, she
was going to make some tea. As the water slowly got heated, she tried to remind herself of her
homeland. The memories were fading since the country she had left hardly resembled the
land of her childhood. The home she knew had been beautiful and the people had been fearless and free. How she had loved the parks and the ancient buildings! Even though she
belonged to a poor family, there was a time when she had dreamt of becoming a writer.
"The war changed everything", she whispered. She could almost hear how her silent words echoed in the naked apartment. When the first bombs fell over the capital Sophia had hoped that it would come to an end quite soon, but it never did. Maybe it would do so physically in a few years, but when her husband and their son was killed on the street during a bomb raid, Sophia's heart was torn apart and the war began to be fought inside her. Fearing for her life as well as for her inside brokenness, Sophia sold their tiny house and fled. That was how she happened to take shelter in this cold and unfriendly country that claimed to have welcomed her with open arms.
Finally the water started to boil, and she poured some of it into a cup and sat down on the worn chair. As she leant back and held the warm cup in her hands she sighed. Suddenly she sensed an increasing tiredness that slowly took power of her body. In spite of this idle life with no employment in sight, which compares to nothing I experienced throughout my whole life, I have never been this weary before. As Sophia reflected upon her own tiredness, she thought of yesterday's events. Most of her time she stayed in her apartment, except for when she went out for a walk, or had to go to the grocery store. Yesterday had been one of those days that followed upon a sleepless night of anxiety. How on earth would she be able to handle the looks from the cashier, as she stumbled on the words, her tongue swelling in her mouth? What had once been so easy now seemed like a nightmare.
When she first came here she really tried to learn the language and had never expected it to become any trouble. She was gifted when it came to handle letters, form words and form them into sentences that flowed together. Words had been to her as flowers to the gardener. She had planted and watered them, arranged them, and decorated places that were naked and bare before she had came there to fill the empty spaces. Words were the bouquets she gave away and the trees she sought tranquillity and comfort under. The only difference between herself and the gardener must have been that her garden was placed inside her. But when the war entered her heart, it seemed to have conquered the secret garden. Nowadays she never wrote anything anymore. Learning a new language became an impossible quest; her flowers were all dead, and her trees were chopped down. No one seemed to be able to help her. The physician that always wore a smile to hide from her declared through the interpreter that she suffered from a trauma with psychosomatic impacts. There was nothing else that they could do for her except putting her on the waiting list for an appointment with the psychiatrist. Sophia was helpless, imprisoned by invisible barriers created by an unmastered language. All that was left to her was to wait.
The tea had cooled and Sophia placed the cup on the table, continuing to stare out through the window. Raindrops started to smash on the glass and with the empty expression that appear on those who live too hollowly, she stared at a man down on the street who was walking past. He glanced through her window at the bottom floor, giving her worn out person a compassionate look. As her eyes met his, he turned and walked up to her window. With a smile on his face, he waved at her and seemed to ask her if he could come in. There was something familiar about him, like she had seen him somewhere before. Suddenly she knew who he was! Sophia waved back, nodded and went to open her door.
With the door open, she could smell the scent of flowers through the rainy air.
/Hanna Carlsson 2008-01-10
(Jag vet, det är inget jag upplevt själv. Jag vet, den är lite väl tragisk.Jag vet vad ni inte vet, den är skriven på temat language and culture, och passar väl in då den beskriver språkhinder och betydelsen av verbal kommunikation)
Hope you enjoyed the reading...
