(no subject)
Sep. 1st, 2001 06:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alonewiththemoonA few days have gone by, open sea, blistering sun, rolling waves, and a nice bounty of fish so far. In two or three days more theh old should be full, if our luck holds. Ins'allah, as my mother would say.
My mother. Just four nights ago I went to my parents' unit to say goodbye. My father is retired, but still consults on trade issues, so they are fortunate in affording a free-standing unit in a nice spoke of the metro hub. I have always thought that my parents' unit is one of the coziest places on earth; they complain about a lack of space, but their home presents a welcoming clutter, proof that real people with real personalities live there. Bookshelves everywhere, revealing a wide variety of interests and tastes and a certian nostalgia for the past, in that they have spent a small fortune over the years buying actual paper books. The shelves are further laden with knickknacks and found objects, some reflecting my mother's heritage, some reflecting my father's, some reflecting other peoples' heritage entirely, so that the effect is almost that of a small museum. When I was small I used to make up stories about the little people and animals among the objects and act them out when no-one was around. I did not have real friends as a young girl, due in part to anti-Arab senitment but I think due in larger part to my own satisfaction with a rich internal life. The wooden dragon from Thailand, the ceramic cat, the Swedish straw goat, the Celtic horse goddess and the mysterious dancer with her veils (my favorite), those were all the friends I thought I would ever need. Later of course I began to talk to the girls in my dance classes and leave that childhood world behind, but still, I swear sometimes when I walk into the living room the dancer winks at me.
My parents reacted to my visit just as they always did before a voyage; there is always a faint undercurrent of understanding that I am in a somewhat dangerous line of work, and they worry, but at the same time they trust my judgement and so have faith that I will always return to them. My mother offers me tea, and my father roars "Don't be ridiculous, offer the girl some whiskey, she's a sea captain not an old maid!" I accept both drinks, slowly sipping at each. My father approves of my business. My mother is not so sure, but she has long ago ceased trying to figure out what is respectable in this society and what isn't, so at least she does not outwardly disapprove. We drink tea and whiskey, talking of the fishing fleets and the latest music from Cairo and I admire my mother's new fawn-colored whippet, a graceful creature with dark trusting eyes. The dog reminds me of my mother herself, though of course I do not say that. It is one thing for my mother to overcome her prejudice against dogs enough to want one in the house, but it would be quite another thing to be told she looks like one.
As I take my leave, my mother tells me to wait at the door. She runs back into the living room and reemerges with a bundle wrapped in one of her silk throws. "Here," she said, "I want you to have this. You've always liked it, and you could use a cultured friend out there amongst your rough crew." I can feel the dancer's elbows and hips through the wrap, and I lose my breath for a moment. Could she know, somehow, that this time is different? But my mother's eyes are smiling with glee at having surprised me. I thank her, hug them both, and walk to the transit pod that will take me back to the water's edge and the Ehrengard. I realize that I am crying as I walk. I have said goodbye to the people and place dearest to me. Even as my heart breaks and cracks, my step quickens, my pulse matching my footfalls, until I am running to the pod, seating myself in it, fingers drumming an impatient beat as I float through residential neighborhoods, business districts, warehouses, and finally the docks and wharves. The smell of salt water fills my nostrils like a heady perfume.
Here in the bright sun, rocking on the waves, that night seems like a lifetime ago, something that happened to someone else. The voices are soothing and caressing, promising me joy to come. And yet... there, now I've gotten this keypad all wet. Must get to my cabin before any of the crew see me and wonder why the captain is fiercely wiping her eyes. I'll go cry to the dancer; she will understand.
My mother. Just four nights ago I went to my parents' unit to say goodbye. My father is retired, but still consults on trade issues, so they are fortunate in affording a free-standing unit in a nice spoke of the metro hub. I have always thought that my parents' unit is one of the coziest places on earth; they complain about a lack of space, but their home presents a welcoming clutter, proof that real people with real personalities live there. Bookshelves everywhere, revealing a wide variety of interests and tastes and a certian nostalgia for the past, in that they have spent a small fortune over the years buying actual paper books. The shelves are further laden with knickknacks and found objects, some reflecting my mother's heritage, some reflecting my father's, some reflecting other peoples' heritage entirely, so that the effect is almost that of a small museum. When I was small I used to make up stories about the little people and animals among the objects and act them out when no-one was around. I did not have real friends as a young girl, due in part to anti-Arab senitment but I think due in larger part to my own satisfaction with a rich internal life. The wooden dragon from Thailand, the ceramic cat, the Swedish straw goat, the Celtic horse goddess and the mysterious dancer with her veils (my favorite), those were all the friends I thought I would ever need. Later of course I began to talk to the girls in my dance classes and leave that childhood world behind, but still, I swear sometimes when I walk into the living room the dancer winks at me.
My parents reacted to my visit just as they always did before a voyage; there is always a faint undercurrent of understanding that I am in a somewhat dangerous line of work, and they worry, but at the same time they trust my judgement and so have faith that I will always return to them. My mother offers me tea, and my father roars "Don't be ridiculous, offer the girl some whiskey, she's a sea captain not an old maid!" I accept both drinks, slowly sipping at each. My father approves of my business. My mother is not so sure, but she has long ago ceased trying to figure out what is respectable in this society and what isn't, so at least she does not outwardly disapprove. We drink tea and whiskey, talking of the fishing fleets and the latest music from Cairo and I admire my mother's new fawn-colored whippet, a graceful creature with dark trusting eyes. The dog reminds me of my mother herself, though of course I do not say that. It is one thing for my mother to overcome her prejudice against dogs enough to want one in the house, but it would be quite another thing to be told she looks like one.
As I take my leave, my mother tells me to wait at the door. She runs back into the living room and reemerges with a bundle wrapped in one of her silk throws. "Here," she said, "I want you to have this. You've always liked it, and you could use a cultured friend out there amongst your rough crew." I can feel the dancer's elbows and hips through the wrap, and I lose my breath for a moment. Could she know, somehow, that this time is different? But my mother's eyes are smiling with glee at having surprised me. I thank her, hug them both, and walk to the transit pod that will take me back to the water's edge and the Ehrengard. I realize that I am crying as I walk. I have said goodbye to the people and place dearest to me. Even as my heart breaks and cracks, my step quickens, my pulse matching my footfalls, until I am running to the pod, seating myself in it, fingers drumming an impatient beat as I float through residential neighborhoods, business districts, warehouses, and finally the docks and wharves. The smell of salt water fills my nostrils like a heady perfume.
Here in the bright sun, rocking on the waves, that night seems like a lifetime ago, something that happened to someone else. The voices are soothing and caressing, promising me joy to come. And yet... there, now I've gotten this keypad all wet. Must get to my cabin before any of the crew see me and wonder why the captain is fiercely wiping her eyes. I'll go cry to the dancer; she will understand.
