Let’s see inside Loreta …
It has a Royal Jewelry Collection inside but I don’t post the pics here.
Prague is stunning. The astronomical clock, palaces, Charles Bridge, the art nouveau buildings, everything and everything. I run out of words whenever I remember Prague, Continue reading “Loreta”
I’m just wondering whether I’ve dreamt about you before we met.
It’s funny how we encounter each other in dreams. We met as strangers, confined with horizon of ignorance. “Another passer-by,” our little voice of wisdom teach us to say. Another casual forgetting, as there’s no significance to convert strangers into non-strangers. There’s no point of carelessly inviting potential (new) bruises.
Little that we know, we’re not strangers at all. As much as we try to escape, we’re based on the same spiderweb of life.
Just several weeks before, I told you about my weird dream. I saw your girlfriend who died years ago. I never met her before, nor see. Not even in picture. I don’t even know that she existed. But, from my dream, I can vividly capture her face when she walk to your direction. I even remember the feel of wind blowing on that street, the street where you met her, the street glowing in golden shade of sunset light. You confirmed that it was her. Her long black curly hair, her beautiful eyes, her height, her figure, every detail is precisely like what I described to you.
Another day, you excitedly informed me that you dreamt about my mother. “We were crossing the street to go to Centrum, and we saw your mother at the other side of the road. I didn’t know that she’s your mother until you told me so. Short-baby-cut curly hair, with little white hairs on the tip of her forehead …” and you went on with your description. It was her. You’ve never see her as well, not even in picture. To be noticed, my mother don’t look like me at all, and I’ve never told you about her. I was staring at you in awe, trying to believe what you’ve just said. Even her warm shimmering tunic was clearly identifiable.
I have no idea how you met my mother in your dreams, or how I met your lovely girlfriend in mine. How, and why, remained as question to be answered by the flowing of time. I couldn’t care less. It’s puzzling because I don’t think we’re that intimate to each other. At the same time, it’s interesting because now I have someone to share my tightly kept little corner of absurd world. I thought it could only happened to me, since I always have a lively realm of dream. But you proved otherwise. Your dream interfered my old-comforting-belief. Though I don’t have any answer -and don’t need one- I know that since then my life would never be the same.
At the time being, uncurious and incautious, I intended to skype my mother back home. After all, if there was any meaning attached to your dream, I couldn’t capture the exact interpretation. What I knew for sure was only one thing: your dream reminded me of my mother. I didn’t tell you that your dream made me realize how awful a daughter i became, here in Den Haag, dwelling in study and life and not taking time to call or text her. I cannot recall how long I’ve abandoned her, and that means: too long. So I took that as a sign to contact her as soon as possible.
… but I was not ready for the bad news.
When I skyped her, she seemed normal. Her bright joyful smile was never absent from her face. She looked at me with the same devotion and care I’ve always known since my childhood. But she didn’t response to my words, she didn’t say a thing. I didn’t even dare to think that she’s not anymore willing to communicate with her disobedient daughter. I knew something was not right. When my youngest brother joined our online conversation-to-be, he delivered the bad news. My mother was unable to listen. One of her ear was impaired. The left one, to be exact. Dear God, please give mercy to my beloved mother ….
“What’s the cause?” I interrupted impatiently. He explained, it just happened. One day, suddenly her ear couldn’t work. Instead, she heard the sound of wind, water, or fax machine. “Fax machine?” I tried to convinced myself that my brother was joking. “It happens,” my brother said, “the doctor said there’s no dirt in her ears, he couldn’t locate anything wrong, but she need a therapy.” So, it’s serious. “How long will the therapy take place?” I wish it wouldn’t be long, I wish my mothers’ ear could be cured and back to normal. I wish this, I wish that, I wish everything, everything, everything, and I … I haven’t even said I love her ….
Only silence hanging in the air. Nobody have any idea how long my mothers’ ear need therapy. Nobody can predict whether it can be back to normal or not. I have no one to blame. It hurts to imagine people shouting to my soft-spoken mother like they’re angry and treating her disrespectfully. It’s painful to think the possibility of people talking at my mothers back, pitying her unfortunate condition. It’s awful to think that people would laugh at her and shook their head continuously, every time she failed to understand what they said. I can’t bear all those negative suspicion of mine, so I tried to imagine another way. Maybe my mother would found serene private peacefulness during her period of soundless solitude. Especially, away from those news about her daughters’ delinquent behavior. Finally, at this point, I just want to stop thinking of any chances of preventing this unusual occurrence … and start practicing gratitude as she always taught me.
No worries, we can always communicate anyway. Out of all unspeakable things in life, we can always speak and listen by heart, undoubtedly.
At the end, each of us connected to each other, mysteriously.
::Picture taken in the exit of Prazsky Hrad, Hradcany, Praha::
PS: thanks to technology, we still can “chat” anyway 😉