T H E V I LL AGE LO OKOU T Evonne
Far in the distance between the mountain hills, the sun is dwelling deep into the horizon, encompassing the passing of the day. The skies’ tangerine hues and dotted reflection gaze upon the village I have guarded still for years. I stand still over my beloved tower as I gradually take sips of coffee made from Arabica, contrary to the common belief that it is the only cure for old melancholic men. The little solitude that I have, from the break of dawn to the setting of the day, has been a familiar feeling I alone familiarized through contemplating the everyday things I reflect through my lonesome. And these things, when observed through the years, take a toll on one’s understanding as if you missed seeing it, like the glamor of a shiny metal rusting over the years. Reminiscing, I still remember every step from the long winding road from my house towards the tower atop the mountain. It all begins as the bells cling in the morning while the parish priest leads the daily prayers. I always pass by the baker, with his rosy cheek from the oven heat as his bread and orange-encrusted wafers are the first thing the villagers flock for in the morning. Then, the school is below the Oaktree, as children loudly greet their teachers. Near it, the cobbler and his wife, both hammering the soles of their clients’ shoes. As one goes by at the middle square, one can pass by the librarian as he fixes his stacked books near the counter. The adverts of shouting merchants can be heard along the streets as one nears the market where dozens of goods are laid around: wine, clothes, leather, food, and flour. Near the village’s gate came the guards, who I always silently nod as a sign of respect. Near the creek, the fishermen line up to grind their daily catch as their sons dig over the dirt to find insects for bait. Near the steep slope, farmers are on its corner, feeding their hens and livestock while tending their crops. And a few kilometers rose in my quarters: A 40 feet tall tower of stone, steel, and lumber on its veranda. However, war looms in unexpected hours. I still remember how bombs fell from the sky on a lazy afternoon, only sparing the few that are lucky enough to avoid its shrapnel and are absent within its landing site. In mere days, the village I grew to love turned into dust and ashes of smoke. The simplicity of the village, inhabitants, laughter, nature and the children playing amidst the riverbanks as they traverse to muds are all but spirits etched within my memory.
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