She called them heart-migraines and flesh
insomnias. Some thought she had gone crazy with no real husband
at home, some thought she was sane when she said that the apple-
trees of beauty were having nightmares too, and that their leafy
crowns were giving her the whispered messages from the Honey
Moon. So people listened for hours, for days, for weeks and no
distinct sound could be heard coming from the apple-trees. They
tried harder, some of them got inspired and composed beautiful
music, and at the changing of the year they all felt older, much
more older than a year older and scared, much more scared than
they had been of the things they had used to know before as being
terrible.
Eve felt lonely again, this time with no refuge in the refugee
camp. In an imagined dialogue with her, I would have asked her:
"Why don't you write what you feel? Why don't you write about
your spiritual wanderings?" "I don't master the punctuation
marks well," she would have said. "People say that in life they
don't know what's coming next. I don't know what is coming next
either, but I know what is NOT coming next in my life here, so
my dots become exclamation points and I say Beware Eve, as moles
can't see but know how to dig, people can't feel but know how to
hurt.
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