When He arrives, he will find him waiting with a smile. Of greeting, gratitude, relief, remorse, embarrassment, appeasement, and many thousand other conflicting intertwining roots dug deep in the dirt, rocks and boulders of this particular experiential plot; each touching at its deepest a singular tale, each in turn a chimera of fact and fantasy, a mind furiously filling in gaps and hailing Marys when needs arise. To think, this laughable shamble of shreds shielding Ego -this porous soil- holds within its folds all these and more, clamouring then to show their fruits upon weary lips, coaxing themselves back to consciousness away from their darkened and unattended cage, seeking –one last time- to be made alive, or minimally remind any who cares they were once lived. But none will care –and nor ought they; so He might take pity on this lingering layered smile and sit a while, give it time to unfold itself, have it tell its tales, its half truths and lies. Where would it begin? Perhaps it would start with unfulfilled passions, confessions made too late and distant to matter; it would speak then of her having ever stood an hour away, at the other end of the world; reachable and unattainable, sought and avoided. It would mock all contrivances, declaring how dutifully was fought the fray to stay altogether away rather than get drawn into a fatuous platonic play; how her contentment did nothing to ease the frustration, how the memories only added to the alienation. But even at this, when least compromising, when least willing to delve in grey, she was not denied, could not be denied; she was a weakness unconquered, an urge never subdued. For her, time was inconsequential; the passage of months and years did nothing to her status in this plot. Her spot always remained, an invisible corner refusing to dissipate –‘that wasn’t there again today, but wouldn’t wouldn’t go away’. Yet the end was never in doubt, a time -a single and singular time- was always to be the last; the last she was met, the last her voice was heard, the last she wrote. The sorrow was in the ever-waiting, knowing that, not knowing when; each time for it tormented and savoured all the more, cherished and suffered. A single time would be the last, but only becoming thus when that very smile unfolding ends the play. Perhaps this would be the smile’s first tale, the first memory it completes, the first story it ends; might its candour keep its audience, conjuring its own Shahryar and have him share in tales yet more? Because when He arrives a smile will be waiting, awaiting an audience so that it may complete its memories, and its memories are many more still.
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