Bruna Ibrahim

31 December 1961

My beautiful Hope,

    Tonight, I will remain awake. Tonight, I count the night sky’s pearls, dropping them one by one, in rhythm with your quiet breaths. I release them gently, pearl after pearl, to delay the dawn’s arrival, as much as possible. But dawn always rises.

    I venture my fingers into your still-damp hair. They are intoxicated with chamomile, honey, and vanilla flowers. We could make a dress out of your hair, I think to myself. Silence gives birth to such whimsical ideas. I observe you from such close proximity, as if discovering you for the very first time. You have a slight blush on your cheeks that I had never noticed before, and that I will certainly not notice anymore when the pallor of illness overcomes your once rosy days.

    Your warm nape rests upon me, you are falling asleep, I can feel it, you grow heavier. You plunge into the folds of a dream, your mind curled up in the hollow of my arm. It would be good to remain trapped under the quilt of this starlit night, like two bodies painted in the embrace of a canvas. But alas, bones weigh us down, and my arm grows numb. Tonight, I will not withdraw it. However, on the next evening, your nape will grow cold, and my arm will shiver at the touch of your lifeless body.

    My hand loses itself once again in your hair. Tonight, you tremble with pleasure. With time, you will grow tired of it. With the back of my hand, I caress your porcelain cheeks. Tonight, you squirm in your sleep. With time, you will remain still. My fingers rest upon your delicate eyelids. Tonight, your chest rises and falls with the rhythm of your breath. With time, your pulse will cease. I place my lips upon yours and breathe, in a simple kiss, all the love that this world can bear. Tonight, you respond to me with desire, with passion. With time, your vacant gaze will meet mine, oblivious and indifferent to my profound nocturnal grief.

    With time, we will no longer be two intrinsically linked souls, loving each other under the tender glow of a friendly moon. With time, we will sleep separately, you in the tranquility of a tomb, and I in a bed of death.

    With time, the room will no longer be cheerful, full of life, overflowing with colors, and a witness to our laughter and tears. With time, it will reek of your fragrances, your three perfumes that you always wear according to the occasion. But they will always exhale the same scent, the scent of your skin. Your soft skin, your fragile skin, which I gaze upon with tenderness. Your wrinkled skin, your parched skin, which I will cover with tears.

    Is uncontrollable poverty not one of the greatest injustices? The starvation against which we struggle, day after day, night after night? The misery that gnaws at our insides, dries up our throats, the misery that infiltrates our hearts and dares to shatter all our hopes?

And the remedy for your accursed illness… where is it?

    I have cried out my sorrows to all those willing to listen. But silence was my only answer. Cold, heavy, loud, soul-crushing silence.

     Tonight, we are rushing like the hand of the wall clock. Together, we descend from the summit of our love, until we reach the hour that’ll gray our hair and bend our backs.

    I would have wanted to lose myself in your tired eyes, so wrinkled that one would think a butterfly had come to rest in the corner of your eye. I would have wanted to argue with you during stormy evenings, on who got to keep the duvet on his side of the bed. I would have wanted to grow tired of your beauty, memorize the curves of your divine body, and no longer yearn to breathe you in, having sensed you too much. I would have wanted my passion’s flame to diminish at the same time as your heartbeat.

    But you will die. You will be the first to depart, leaving me with this young love, still fresh, that will not spare me the pain of bidding you farewell. You will die on the couch. The couch on which I now cradle you. The couch that will forever bear the three ink drops I accidentally spilled. The couch on which our sleep-laden bodies rested. Your heart, worn to the core, will slow its endless race. Those who claim to know you will gather, but only I will mourn you enough.

    I steal a glance at your body, still slouched on the couch. I steal a glance at your precious heart that I failed to save. This body, this heart, this soul, snatched away so suddenly by illness. This precious living being turned into a corpse, turned into a simple memory, because of ignorance, because of selfishness, because of poverty, because of the invisible remedy that slipped through my trembling fingers.

    The sky extinguishes its torches and ignites at the edge of the rising light. No matter how much I delay it, dawn always rises.

    I struggle to let you go this morning. Yesterday’s rain has hollowed out your tomb. I promised to keep you warm, under the roof of our home.

But promises fade with time, and time always slips away.

Forever yours,

Hopeless

–

Bruna was a lost little girl, clueless as to how her future will unravel itself, until she found home in books, literature, the safety of words and the gentle curve of letters. She’s from Lebanon, so naturally English isn’t her first language ; French is. But no matter the language, the place, the time, she’s convinced that there’s a part of her soul that’s a writer in every universe. You can reach her at her Instagram: @brunaaibrahim