He regarded her for a second, fathomless blue-green eyes cold. Then, a devilish grin came upon his face as his British accent rang through the room;
"How ever do you expect me to forget fucking you 𝑟𝑎𝑤, love? Taking you on the couch, against the...
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The earth spreads out a green carpet and the daisies open up and the world blossoms.
Six-year-old Chiara listened to her beloved Jadati sing to her softly, her gentle voice soothing in its Arabic words. The little girl laid her head on her grandmother's heavy bosom, the delicate cotton wet with her salty tears. Slowly, her whimpers reduced to slow sniffs as she allowed her grandmother's sweet voice to serenade her into peace.
Speak not of the white lily and praise its beauty, and forget not the magnificence of the rose.
It was only her and Jadati Noor now. Her papa and mama were gone. Her kind Papa with his laughing silver eyes and smooth storytelling lips that always seemed to transport Chiara to worlds unknown. Her darling Mama with her golden dark skin and skilled hands that never tired from making her only child Injera as many times she wanted. How they would swing her in their middles in the busy streets of New York, pointing out the grandness of the city and the beauty in the smallest of things.
They said it was a car accident and said that Mama did not feel anything. They said that Papa tried to hold on, but it was just too much. They said it was a drunk driver and a hit and run. They said that she would be fine and that her Jadati who lived in Toronto six hours away would take of her. They said Insha'allah and Melikami Newi and sorry for your loss.
However, all Chiara wanted in the midst of the devastation, and confusion and denial was for her parents to say anything to her once more.
And place the narcissus on the left and mention not the jasmine until it blooms.
Chiara kept her gaze on one of the quaint porcelain tea pots filled with sweet Qahwa, wondering how her beloved parents could just be gone. With every second that passed, she looked back at the front door, hoping they would burst in, their hands filled with gifts and safety and love. Like always.
"Tete?" She inquired softly, lifting her head to gaze up at her plump grandmother, glasses fogged with her tears and smudged with loose fuzz. Her small voice was heavy with emotion, "Will I ever b-bloom like the jasmine?"
Her grandmother's grey eyes twinkled as she stroked Chiara's hair, a gentle smile on her face, "My dear Chiara, you will bloom,"
Chiara looked down, doubting her grandmother's wise words. How can she bloom when she feels like both rain and sun have been taken from her life? How, when she feels like she will never leave the shade?
"One day, the pain in here," Her grandmother placed a frail finger on Chiara's heart, "-will reduce to little more than sand, dearest one. You will bloom, your petals reaching other flowers and causing them to bloom as well. Maybe not today, but with every day that passes, slowly, the sun will come back, and the rain will drizzle and slowly, your petals will fall open,"
Her kind grey eyes peered at Chiara under her thin, square-framed lenses, "-and you, Chiara Jahzara Noor, will bloom beautifully,"
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