The Perfect Gift
The road wasn’t really a road as we would call it, more of a hardened dirt path, the sand baked by the sun and hardened by the constant succession of years of feet pounding it down, until it seemed to be stronger than asphalt. The air was dry and full of the dust kicked up by hundreds of bare and sandaled feet, my shoes liberating dust as well and offering it up to the winds to mingle with the rest. The air seemed to not only be dry, but a sort of moisture remover, each breath leaving my throat more parched and dry than the one before it. In the faded and dusty bag slung over my shoulder I carried a large bottle of water and a few bags of dates, nothing more. The sounds of the street were as colorful as the scenery. Hundreds of voices were shouting from each side, merchants and customers alike, all vying for each other’s attention and trying to make a sale. The language was foreign to me and I understood none of it, however the sound of the shouted bartering was oddly comforting, like a soft blanket, or the worn out stuffed dog I have kept on my bed since I was 12. I may not have understood the exact words, but in the world of trade we all spoke the same language, this for that, that for this. The colors though, were vibrant. Set against the drab brownish color of the desert and the bright blue of the sky around us, the merchant tents and various wares, even the clothes they wore, which would be vibrant enough on their own, somehow seemed more vivid and real when surrounded by the vast emptiness of the desert. Up ahead on the left I saw a lean-to made from several sticks and a large red cloth. On the ground in front of it was spread a woven red blanket, covered with beaded necklaces, bracelets, belts and chokers. A woman sat on the ground behind the blanket, garbed in the traditional Muslim style. Covered from head to toe in a black abaya only her shockingly bright green eyes and a small bit of brown skin around them could be seen. Slightly behind her was a small girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, wearing a knee length red dress and hand made sandals. Her long dark brown hair waved in the strengthening wind as she watched me curiously. I knelt down to get a better look at the beads. I was on a search to find the perfect gift for someone I had left back home. Our relationship had seemed so strong at one point, so complete, but now it seemed that we were slowly falling apart, piece by piece, until one day we would completely separate. I did not want that to happen, but I couldn’t find the words to express the strength of the emotions that I felt, and had hit upon the idea of finding a unique gift. Perhaps the depth of feeling and meaning behind it would be sensed in the way that my words never would, for words were always incomplete, mere shadows of grand ideas, concepts, and feelings. Words would never work, but a gift…that just might do the trick. Half buried under several beaded necklaces was something that caught my eye. It was a choker, three strands of thread covered with white and brown wooden beads, most likely hand carved by the woman that sat before me. Perhaps the small girl was her daughter, and helped by handing her mom the right bead at the right time. I smiled at the image that thought created as I eyed the choker. Three white beads followed by two oblong brown ones, over and over until the choker ended with a leather strap. In two places there were flat vertical brown beads with intricate carvings that connected the rows. Three separate lines and a simple pattern, all bound together. Simple yet intricate, it seemed the perfect choice. With the image of the loving mother and daughter making these trinkets together fresh in my mind, I made my decision. Now I just needed to find something to trade for it. Opening my bag was more difficult than I had expected, the wind was picking up and swirling the already dusty air around us, causing me to squint my eyes and making the top of the bag flap wildly. Reaching in I pulled out the full bottle of water and a bag of dates. I could get more water back at my camp, but these people sold their wares daily to eat and live to the next day, where the cycle began again. And dates seemed to be a dietary staple out here, even when dried they retained enough moisture to make their water content as valuable as a meal. Holding out the water and food to her, I gestured with my other hand, which held the beaded choker. She nodded her head at me, signaling that the trade was a good one. I stood up to leave before the sandstorm got any worse. At this point the little girl, suddenly bold, ran out from behind the woman I imagined was her mother, and stood squarely in front of me. Looking up at me, I noticed how her brown eyes seemed to have an enormous depth, which spoke to me of wisdom beyond her years. She stood there expectantly, as if it was my turn to make a move. My bag was empty now; I had nothing left to give. Looking down at my empty hands, I noticed a ring I had gotten several years ago in Greece. A dull silver band, it had simple black waves etched into the surface, leading up to a similarly etched outline of a heart. I had bought it because of the significance of the etchings. The waves symbolized water, life sustaining, so soft and giving, and yet capable of a creating a flood which none could withstand. The heart was the one thing I tried to always be true to. It had meant a lot to me when I bought it so long ago, now the meaning seemed as hollow as my own heart. Perhaps I had lost my way slightly since then. The girl noticed me eyeing my ring and her face lit up in a wide grin. Smiling back at her, I stripped the ring off of my finger and took her hand in my own. The ring was too big for her small digits, so I placed it snugly on her thumb. Her grin transformed into an ear-to-ear smile, seemingly lighting up her entire face. She gestured for me to lean down further, as if she had something to tell me. I knew I could not speak their language, but I leaned down anyway, feeling it was the expected thing to do. She put her hands on my cheeks and whispered into my ear one word, a single syllable that was perfectly enunciated. Perhaps she had seen it on a t-shirt, or learned it on the street. Perhaps it was the only English word she knew, and it just happened to be at the right place and the right time. Or perhaps I really had glimpsed a wisdom in her eyes, and she knew exactly what she was saying and why. The reasons behind it were inconsequential. Instinctively I knelt down and hugged the girl to my chest, thanking her for the gift she had given me, the gift of understanding. Behind her I could see the woman looking at us, her eyes crinkled as if she were smiling. I imagined she had a warm and inviting smile. As I released the girl, I bowed my head slightly at the woman, a sign of mutual respect among the women in the country, or so I had observed. Walking back down the street, the wind began to die down, and the sky opened up, raining down all around me. I stopped and leaned my head back as far as it would go. The drops were gritty, laden with the dust and grime from the earlier sand storm, tasting like the desert itself. Not caring, I opened my mouth and let the liquid trickle down my throat, slacking my thirst enough for the walk home. Refreshed, I began to walk again, surrounded by the colors and noises of this life they had built for themselves, brick by brick, all by hand. The rain made everything smell differently, as if the skies had washed all the weariness off of every surface, allowing the scent of hope to reach my nostrils. When the sun came out again it would bake all the surfaces, evaporate away the small puddles, and the cycle would start over again. There was always a cycle. Holding the beaded choker in my right hand, I looked over my shoulder to see if the girl was still standing there, maybe waving at me as I walked away. She was gone, vanished as if she had never existed in the first place. I thought of the word she had whispered to me and smiled to myself. It really was that simple. She had supplied the answer without me even knowing the question, but it was ok that way. That one word echoed in my head as I walked over a hill and lost sight of the village. I chanted it in my head in time to the beat of my shoes on the hard earth, my feet seeming to float above the ground. I said the word out loud to the emptiness that was in front of me, and the emptiness seemed to recede just a little bit. I shouted it then at the top of my lungs, banishing the confusion that had been clouding my words for so long now, liberating myself from the overpowering gloom that had been stalking me. It was the answer, the answer to everything. “Love,” I whispered to myself, smiling. “Love.”
Copyright © 2002 T J Richards |