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| She
was an Iris. Bountifully bestowed with every grace and refinement of her
features. She had blue eyes that conveyed enigmatic thoughts when words
failed her. If the eyes were meant to be windows of our soul, hers would've
been tremendous for human experience. She had hair that intricately folded
in delicate curls, which fell radiantly to her waist. It was light auburn
and it amplified the tender expression of her face. She held people with her gaze. One that lulls you in a surreal dream waking disoriented from. Her lips would curl when she smiled. They were pink and full. One that tempts even the sombre and the morose. She was, in all effect, beautiful and she stirred the natural. She was privy to her own thoughts and about her was some clandestine shroud that kept almost anyone at a considerable degree of distance. This was how I knew her and I might've inched closer or maybe she let me think it. There was a garden. It was vast and abundantly embellished with some one or two kinds of evergreen trees. Pines, laurels, firs and myrtles were ones I recognized. There were only a few but the air here richly held mixed aromatic scents from these trees. And then on the long stretch of Bermuda grass, grew the irises. Large, handsome flowers of blue, purple, yellow and grayish white with their sword-shape leaves that mostly bloomed in midsummer. Everything here was perennial. She lived most of her life in this garden. She had a deep passion for anything that filled her heart and soul to overflowing. She sought light, colors, music, nature and even the most menace of things. She was keen on all these. It emboldened her mind to be open and she, despite a subtle hint of meekness, became elusive to the prosaic. She often took me there and later, I would find her as if she knew I would or she let me. She conversed emotive thoughts and scenarios with such eloquence that I often found myself relentless amidst the élan I thought I had lost with time. Often, in our amble walks, I made her feel elated or she let me think I did. I played with words. I was good at it. But she was a poet. She inspired me. She had, in all effect, filled my ennui and had greatly enamoured me. The tears would come quietly as I held her there. She was remarkably more beautiful now as if she'd finally freed it within herself. I kissed her hands. They were warm. "That is for the intimacy with which you touched my soul." I kissed her forehead. It was uncreased. "That is for the unfathomable intellect and the innocence with which you've held me spellbound." I kissed her eyes. They were looking aimlessly towards heaven. "That is for telling me what ought not to be said." I kissed her nose. It was cold. "That is for breathing in your life into mine." I kissed her ears. It was cold too. "That is for hearing what I could not say." I kissed her lips. It was soft. "That is for telling me what ought to be said." And finally, I kissed her heart. It had stopped beating. "That is for sharing a bit of yourself to everyone." She always had the heart for that. I looked around the garden. Pretty, all the flowers. They were all irises of various kinds or shape or color. Summer had passed but they were all in full bloom today. I hummed a tune from a song we had agreed on. Piano's beautiful. And it seemed as though it echoed from out of her too. I rocked myself, held her tighter to me, seeking comfort from her for this. I kissed her lips again. Absinthe, I gasped. Laudanum. Of course, of course it's laudanum. That broke me. It broke my heart. But the tears came ever so quietly as I held her. Amidst all her irises, she lay so beautifully appalling. Poisoned. Poisoned her blood. I was never cognizant to her struggle. The clarity of which was never made known to me. And just like all her irises that I see in its splendour and flawlessness each day, that I am afraid to touch them for fear that they will wilt, so too as I am afraid to touch her. It broke me to bitter pieces because I am not able to say that at some time I had tried. I caressed her cheeks. They were still warm. I took a purple iris adjacent to me and placed it over her heart. You will always be the only one Iris. My Iris. I buried her with the finest. A funeral march that lasted on countless moonlights. I opened the gates of our garden to everyone. A cruel time had passed, much to get over from. It was spring then, seven months after, when the children started to come. Their restless nature and their innocence shook the garden, making it alive once again. They played among the trees and the irises. They touched it in the way I never did. The children love it there. It is theirs now. And the tears would still come ever so quietly every time I hear a child reading out loud the inscriptions on every corner. "She is an Iris. A beautiful flower with a child's heart. Poetic is the nature of her existence and Absolute is her sensitivity for Life." |
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Copyright
© January 11, 2001
Thursday 1:50pm .Iris. All Rights Reserved. |
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