Dust
“Little Sister.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going away for a short while.”
“Is that a Dove? Up there.” She points a wavering finger.
“It is a seagull. They are all seagulls.”
“Why no Doves?”
“There have never been Doves here. They have always been seagulls.”
“I’m sure that once there were Doves.”
I look at her for a moment. She is frail. Her eyes glisten.
“I wrote a story today,” she whispers. She pauses; stares for a moment into the dusty air. “I could not sleep.” Her eyes turn to meet mine. “Do you have time to listen?”
“Yes.”
“It is a story about the Doves.” She pauses. “One day there are no Doves, because we do not need there to be Doves. But then the next day, the Doves come, because we need them. And the Doves play by the sea, and they build a sandcastle, and then another castle and houses and streets and cars.” She takes a sudden breath. “But then it gets dark. And their city is reduced to a shadow against the sky. And the sky is black. And the sea blacker. And then the sea comes and swallows the city and washes the sand out to sea and the Doves all fly away like specks of dust.”
“Well that is not a very pleasant story.”
“It is. Because daytime comes and the Doves come back and they build their city again.”
“Does the tide not wash it out the same as before?”
“Yes.”
“Then where is the happiness in that?”
She looks at me for a moment. Then she slowly sinks back into her chair, and resumes her fathomless gaze into the dusty air.
The stray dog has come outside of our house again. It sits by the corner. It is still and quiet. I think that it sits there to reflect upon the world. Father does not like it.
“Kwaku?” It is father’s voice. I see him now. He sits around the corner from the dog. He cannot see it. That dog has learnt well.
“I’m going away now.”
Silence.
“Are you coming back?”
“No.”
Pause.
“Do you remember when you used to sit here with me son?”
“Yes.”
“When you were a little boy.” The old man takes a long drawing breath. He does not look at me; his eyes are on the sky. “See the seagulls son,” he says after a moment. “There never used to be so many. No. There were one or two back then. You used to ask me...” he chuckles “You used to ask me: ‘Father, where are the Doves?’ ‘There are no Doves.’ I used to say. They are all seagulls.’ One day, we sat right here, and you said again and again…you had seen a Dove, you said, and you said it again and again. And that evening, while your mother put you to bed, I sat and I watched for the Dove,” a chuckle, “You had convinced me so much, that there was a Dove.” He pauses. “I never saw it. I still look for it some days, you know. But I think that I am just being a silly old man.”
He sighs.
The dusty air is still and silent.
“Where is that dog?” he exclaims suddenly. “If it comes near here again. I will shoot it.”
“It is not here father.”
“Everyone I know goes away in the end. Even the stray dog.” Sigh. “Where do you go, Kwaku?”
“Trenchtown.”
“You take your guitar with you Kwaku?”
“Yes.”
“You will play a song for me in Trenchtown?”
“Yes.”
“A song for an old man, and his empire of dirt.”
He sits back now, and closes his eyes. Sister is asleep also. I think that only the stray dog watches me as I walk away.