In the quiet desert village of Dey, living among the sand dunes and mirages, existed an anomaly - me. I was different, born without the ability to read, write or keep long memories. My scientist father hailed my uniqueness as a miracle, but my life...
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It was a simple, warm evening in the modest setting of our family dining room. Our dinner guest, Aunt Nerilla, had been engaging in lively conversation since the start of the meal. As I piled my fork high with broccoli, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that someone was missing—a crucial part of our family dinners that had been absent tonight.
"Such a lovely dinner, my dear! I have no words, Eisa! The potato pie is especially splendid!" Aunt Nerilla gushed, heaping praise upon my mother's culinary efforts. My mother merely allowed a modest nod of gratitude, her attentions focused on refilling her cup of tea. Dad, ever the silent supporter, concealed his amusement behind his drink. His grip on mother's hand under the table expressed his pride better than words ever could.
"He's not coming tonight." I said, fingering my salad. The laughter and merriment dimmed, replaced by a sombre realization. Wesa, our life and soul of the dinner table, had kept disturbingly quiet tonight.
Aunt Nerilla, always the lively chameleon, shifted her entire outlook within a split second. "Oh, how disappointing! I was so looking forward to catching up with Wesa," she complained, giving voice to the disappointment the rest of us had been reluctant to admit.
As the disappointment settled, their conversations steered towards a topic that drew varying reactions from each of us—my future marriage. The mere word was sufficient to incite passionate debates, with Aunt ruling in favour of pro-marriage arguments, while mom preferred her careful neutrality. Exhausted from my previous confrontation with Wesa, I remained a silent observer.
"Could you imagine, Wesa and Devon as a couple?" Aunt Nerilla piped up, her giddy tones injecting some life into the dull chatter. "They would make such a lovely pair. Just adorable!"
I scoffed inwardly, my thoughts transported to the innocent hand-holding days Aunt Nerilla was reminiscing about.
"We're just friends, Auntie," I informed her as politely as I could, rising to clear my plate. Her responding wink told me she didn't believe a word, her amusement only heightened by my denial.
Eager to escape Nerilla's incessant matchmaking schemes, I tactically fled. Mom, ever the enabler, subtly guided me towards the hideout of my own room, her soft words a veil for an understanding that I needed rest. Aunt's impish smile and gleaming eyes followed me, even as my room door closed behind me. The soft hum of her persisting chatter comforted me from a distance, a reminder of the warmth and security of family bonds.
As I settled in for the night, I found myself wishing I could turn back the hands of time—not just to have Wesa return to our dinner table, but for a time when our relationships were simpler, easier to understand. When our childhood held no double meanings. When holding hands with Wesa simply meant friendship. And as I slowly drifted off into a fitful slumber, I wondered if life would ever be that simple again.
