The last time they had seen me I was running
through the sand in tears. I was rejected by my family and was living on the
run because I didn’t really know what else to do. I was running to ease the pain. But I use the term running loosely, mostly the
running was in my mind, it raced around in circles, a cycle of despair. My body tried to run, but mostly it walked
and rode and swam and took comfort with strangers, it moved until it was too tired
to move any further and then it would stop, briefly, as I slept.
That day I was running from the street
where I’d been waiting to catch a glimpse of my young children as they boarded
the school bus. They’d looked away and closed the curtains to shield themselves
from the desert sun and from the sight of their wild looking, scary mother, a grief
ridden form; a lone figure on the sand.
They clutched their school bags, wore neat and tidy school uniforms and
had bellies full of sustenance provided by the Nanny. ‘Safe and Well’ said the
report from an officer at the embassy, sent by CAFCASS to check on the boys’
well being after the abduction.
The couple I’d known as friends drove past
me dressed for work, smart entrepreneurs heading for a day of regular business,
there were no embraces when chance had us meet that day, there was a gulf
between us, (it crossed my mind that maybe they regarded my pitiful state as
somehow contagious) we had been close over the years, that family and mine. Our
lives were a series of walks in the Alborz mountains, picnics, parties, we’d
done things together as families, theirs and mine … but that day when
we encountered one another on the sand there was a deep chasm; no common ground on
which we could base our relationship; I was outcast and they were together on their
track, forging a path to a successful business, they looked at me through
vacant eyes, a glance across the desert sun and sand. We acknowledged each
other, politely and then they were in a hurry, had a bus to catch!
I had time, I ran and walked and cried until
I was exhausted and then I’d get some sleep, and that’s how I survived.
Now it’s springtime. My boy is 14 years
old and we bounced along the path on our way to a café in his neighborhood,
chatting about this and that and who’s doing what where, and our respective social
events of the night before … we walked alongside the river flowing merrily
beneath our feet and running over rocks and forging a smooth path for itself,
as the running water eroded the rough stone surfaces that over time had and
made them smooth, there we were, me and my boy and the flow of the water all
running downhill together. We ordered
croissant and coffee for me and hot chocolate and apple pie for him and we sat
there, together at ease and taking pleasure in each others company.
I love time with my children, it’s so
nourishing, and when he stands tall and looks at me, face to face and then
reaches out for physical contact, holds my arm to guide me safely across a busy
street, or holds on tight as we part and says ‘I love you’ I know it’s
real.
It’s been a long journey, a relentless and
ongoing campaign but there are times when I can stop and mark a milestone, and
realize the point at which I find myself. And
seeing them that day as we walked out of the café was one of those times. I was
greeted with big smiles, wide-open arms and big hugs, not only by Mr. and
Mrs. but also by their daughter and the brother of Mrs. who I’d met only on
several occasions and over a decade ago.
Body language speaks volumes and it made me glow that my boy got to see
his mother getting such a genuine and warm greeting from members of the enemy
camp; the universe was showing him that his mother is no monster, that she is loved
and accepted. We were in tune with the world, touched by humanity through a chance encounter on a beautiful spring day.
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