My third day of class, I
(trying to maintain some semblance of control)
Confiscated a whistle from a boy.
A convincing, melodic sort of whistle:
To hear it, you’d think it was a bird.
(quite popular that summer, before the diversions of Ramadan firecrackers set in)
were swiftly added to a list of items not welcome in school:
Food in class.
For weeks, I’d hurry home through narrow alleyways,
Water dripping on my head,
Puddles lurking at my feet,
That those songs and sounds I heard from high, high places there were
Some weeks later,
we made a small pilgrimage
To a square with trees and roses
Grass and shrubs
No shops, no homes,
No people but memories.
A place of rest and sorrow,
If anywhere nearby, I thought
Might know the sounds of birds (not whistles)
It was this.
In this soft and quiet place, though,
The birds were silent, too.
Three weeks fast-forward;
A new home to the East:
I heard a song
And wondered where the whistler was
A split-second just before I knew:
No whistles here