A Darkness No Star Can Melt Births a New Dawn

Like that day, the storm was on. The only difference was that the storm was happening only outside. Sweeping in a demonic wave, it erased the memories’ vestige of calm, with a shadowy flounce over the dark jade deep. Gusty winds stirred up caravans of dust, cloaking all in a haze. Moats of dirt gathered around every object—both living and nonliving. Akin to a super fast train arrowing through, the heavy axe of the blast hewed tree branches and leaves fell, too.

A clamorous wind blew in, while silver lances tossed in the sky, and almost uprooted the black plum tree before our eyes. It leaned forward, lowering its towering height; stretching out its hands east and west, whining in vain for a peaceful rest; continued to bend its neck; and drooping its branches, almost pressed against the ground. We were like turtles upturned, their world upside down, unable to right themselves, or flip back onto their feet. There appeared an ecstatic crowd of humans, their voices in clanging flight. Their arms winged with victory over the salubrious tree that was delimbed, its only fault being encroachment on territories the humans called their own.

Similar to a struck frog, we convulsed but never cried in pain. Our faces grave white, our attire like white flower wreaths, feeling the teeth of soreness scraping our peace within, while we awaited an awakening the souls did retreat.

We don’t know when the storm inside perished, leaving us vacuous and impassive. A solemn slumber captivated us that forgot to vex, to burn in distress. Invisible manacles clanked on our immobile hands.

For long, the tree remained in a benumbed state—no chirping of birds, no visitation of bees, no hugging of squirrels could release the unease, loosen the tensed wire that remained suspended within.

The gale had let wild man-of-war birds and falcons free—flapping wide wings and gnawing on the unrelenting pain. Down in the treacherous abyss of our minds, death held its flag alive. A strong blow to our health, a threat to our continuance, was on. In our desolate houses were heard the enduring, pensive children’s tireless pleas to climb onto life’s lap, leaving unvoiced sobbing surfs of threnody.

The supersonic blow tried its utmost to deracinate the tree. It survived the wallop, twisting and curving in positions never seen, unfamiliar to believe. Perhaps the rule of life is to go on, irrespective of the frozen memories—which remain like a bone stuck in the esophagus, refusing to let go—that resolve never to thaw again.

On the following day, the tree seemed lighter than usual—displaced by the squall, slanted at about 60 degrees to the vertical. Its tensed branches were at ease, stirring gently in the summer zephyr. A few days later, the hardened discomfort lessened. From the limbless, white-embattled branches once bitten by foes, gorgeous, fiery new leaves sprouted from within to exhibit pageantry that fit the common, dreadless days ahead.