There on a distant hill that embraces a neglected village, almost forgotten, and around forests of pine, oak trees buzzing with greenery, with a stunning view of the slopes and terraces covered with fruit trees. Where the sun seemed to withdraw blithely behind the sprawling mountains, giving it, with its remaining light, shadows that increase its splendor, and an opportunity for calm and serenity after the hustle and bustle of the day, while its springs flowing throughout from its volcanic rocks rest on the hope of tranquility.
On the rocky top to the west is a spacious old house that has been recently restored for an old, middle-ranking family whose ancestors worked in agriculture and harvesting.
Sheikh Riad, the owner of this house was with his cracked hands from continuous work planting wheat and trees, taking care of. His eyes shining with joy, as he watched it grow and bear fruit as if it were his second family until the days turned his back, and the troubles wrinkled his face, encouraging him to complete them, encouraging them to the end.
Hayat remembered when she was young and wanted to help him, while drops of sweat poured from his forehead as he was digging a waterwheel to deliver water to the planting, the ax fell from her hand and fell into a pool, to laugh that day filling his cheeks, ‘‘these two soft hands are not tired’’ he said.
As she lay on her bed, her pale face, shivering from the heat, she babbled words from which only her mother could be understood. She felt a hand apply a cold compress, a drop wets her forehead, and for the first time she sees her father’s tears.
Darkness crept into his eyes, ‘‘he loves her and will do whatever makes her happy’’ he said sadly. She smiled gratefully, resting her head on his chest. You didn’t know how overflowing with tenderness before.
Although she was not more than thirteen years old, she knew how difficult it was for them to agree, her mother who spent her life organizing their lives and providing the best she could, besides her father who avoided disagreement until life passed deaf.
That evening, when her father came back home, who had been away from the family for a few days, her mother ran to her with longing, ‘‘How long do I need to rearrange this mess?’’ she said. How much effort he made to cover her mother’s preoccupation with the family’s burdens from her interest in raising them. He was encouraging Hayat to excel in her studies, and cultivating in her the motivation, confidence and strength that she needs now more than ever. How she wishes she could comfort his tired hands, and compensate him for a small part of his giving, but death, which used to grind dreams, hastened to snatch him early.
And here she is today, thirty-two years old, with her simple and soft features, with loose hair covering her white neck, as a sluggish slouch loosening its flaps and concealing the flash. Although her marriage, which seemed to fall from the beginning, but as long as she clings to its fragile crumbling walls above the remnants of her soul, she would make a torrent of concessions to achieve her hope of a family that happily flutters around her, striving to be an ideal wife, collecting the seeds to share with a man refused to watered her, exiled with him from the pink world that she had always dreamed of, and lived its details in her romantic novels that accompanied her since her spring bloomed. Her grandmother’s eyes smile, revealing the wrinkles dug by time, embracing them with a look of tenderness and strange luster. She says: ‘‘Once upon a time.’’ The senses greet her with eagerness for more, and a feeling of joy and security surrounds her. She sleeps and the sky opens her arms, she flies with white wings, she listens to the song of love, and sees the heroes of stories smiling at the justice of heaven, as they taught her that the end is for good. But now she wonders: ‘‘Was this really her confidence, or did she pity her from the bitterness of days?’’ She said to herself with sadness: ‘‘Since my wings were tied, I returned to the earth, lost in the darkness, searching for the light, and a screeching cry in my throat did not come out, and with it my dreams withered, and inside me something died.’’