something for the Dip. Ed. magazine."
The advertisement has been posted since the beginning of time but nobody
seemed to give the slightest attention to it. "Find articles for the
magazine."' The order came from Hanif, my superior. This
time it was directed to me, the one in-charge of the English section of the
magazine. Poems; I have no problem with that. I've written several before dedicated to the one I love.
Hmm…I might want to share them with the world. But writing the articles
would be quite challenging. I set about fulfilling the task, (to write some
articles for the magazine) which didn't seem so Herculean at first.
I thought as I sat down at my desk, a fresh sheet of paper in front of me , held
up a pen, trying to figure out what I
wanted to include in the magazine. Two
hours and many failed brainstorming sessions later, the paper was covered with a
multitude of doodles in a variety of colours…but no essay.
I sighed as I realized I didn't get very far.
I looked out the window. How
I hated those people out there enjoying their evening. I grabbed a
notebook and stuck my pen behind my ear. I headed for the garden. Perhaps I could get some inspiration sitting there among the
greenery. Setting myself down on
the swing, I stared at the paper and bit my pen.
Nothing came to me. I looked
around. My brothers and sister were
all outside, going about their early evening activities. I watched my dad carefully parking his car in the garage.
He got out of the car and walked toward the house.
His right hand was holding a
red plastic bag containing some food for tea,
I supposed. Dad always brought home something for us.
Looking at him I noticed his hair was turning gray.
“He was getting older, so was I.”
Just not sure when or how can
I repay him for all he had done to raise us.
Abah, nothing compares to you…
sighed in desolation (wishing I weren’t given the responsibility to write for
the magazine). Getting up, I went
to the kitchen and picked a fresh
green pear from the fridge. I
washed it and took my first bite. I glanced at the paper on the table.
It was still empty, as white and clean as it was when I first started.
I removed the paper from the board and with one swift motion, I crumpled
it and threw it into the garbage.
the telephone rang, killing the silence. I
ran and grabbed the receiver ."Hello, Assalamualaikum." I heard that
deep, warm voice which sounded very comforting and soothing to my ears. We
talked for about 15 minutes. I hung up the phone, with a smiling face.
Now I knew what I wanted to write. Ideas
started pouring in. I was
determined to bring out the best in me. I
don't care what others would say reading my articles.
At least, I did my part, my best.
-Suzi Haslinda Hasmuri-