He froze, having no feelings at all as silence swallowed the room; there was no sound left other than his heavy heart beats, and his veins started burning, as though they were pipes which drove fire directly into his heart.
“What’s the matter, sir?” She said, as his mind seemed to be restarting.
But he didn’t answer; instead he just raised his hand, palms above, asking for the stone.
“The stone,” he said, huskily.
“Oh, yes,” she made a small laugh out of embarrassment.”Here,”
Dust, is the first thing he feels. Then he searches it for writings, and that’s what he finds.
At the top of it-as Miss Watson said- are their names, the sense of her name spreads warmth inside of him. Beneath it is a sentence which he finds hard to read.
“What is it?” He asks, pointing at the sentence, waiting for confirmation.
“Seeing is believing.” She said.
Putting up himself together, the old man stood up slowly.
Seeing is believing. The words were dancing inside his head; the words were filling his happy mind.
He had replaced Miss Watson’s voice by Helga’s, imagined that the words were directly out of her mouth.
“Nancy, I think you’ll be late to the party if you didn’t leave now; do you mind leaving me alone?” He said to Miss Watson.
“No, of course not, but are you going to be fine?” She asked, but didn’t hear any response. “No, I think you’ll need me now, no.” she said quickly.
He knew that he’s looking ill at the moment, feeling like daggers piercing into his stomach every second; the pain was fierce.
“I’m fine,” He lied, as she gave him his crutch.
بقلم: ديما قفّاف
سألت صديقي مرة -وكنت أعرف انه يجيد كتابة الشعر:
-منذ عشرين عاما وأنت تكتب لها شعرًا، أليس كذلك؟
قلت: لمَ لمْ تنشر أشعارك حتى الآن؟.
.أجاب: لأن قصيدتي لم تنته بعد يا صديقي
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