Hello All!
I know, I know. It’s been FOREVER since I last posted any new pics. That’s not to say I haven’t been taking photos, because that’s IMPOSSIBLE. Just a little busy with a teeny bit of laziness thrown in. lol
Without further adieu, some sculpture/statues I found while wandering in downtown White Plains after work one day.
Expect more soon! I took a bunch of flower shots that I can’t wait to share! WHOO HOO!
Love,
Tuma
Life was a lot simpler as a kid. Wouldn’t you all agree? It’s a happier time because you haven’t yet realized how truly fucked life is. Mom and dad love one another and everyone’s really happy despite the fact that dad’s having an affair with his really hot secretary. Boys are practically non-existent, like a rare species of bird barely beeping on your radar. They don’t make good playmates, except the occasionally smaller-than- the-others who is actually fun to play with because he likes dolls too and lets you be the dad when you play house. The boys who tease and bully him are doing so only because they’re stupid and cooties make them do weird things.
Room 102: Father comes home from work and finds his small children are home all alone.
He turns the key and unlocks the door, shouldering his way in, hands full of his briefcase and a bag of treats for the children. As soon as he steps inside, he feels that something is wrong. The silence is out of place for a home with 3 children, ages two, five and six. The usual sounds of Liz finishing up dinner, Kate playing house with her dolls, Mike having a wild police chase with his matchbox cars and Sammie tottering to greet his “da da” aren’t present. A strange and sudden fear grips his heart as he drops his bags at the door and begins calling their names. “Liz… Katie, where are you darling?” “Michael… Sam, can you boys hear me?” With each repetition of their names, his anxiety quickly transforms to panic, making it harder to draw a breath. Suddenly, he stops and sharply turns his head. He’s heard something…a muffled sniffle coming from the Master bedroom. He slowly makes his way inside, straining to hear something… anything, as he stands still in the center of the room. There, he hears it again. The muffled sound of someone afraid of being heard is coming from the walk-in closet. He walks over cautiously with one hand outstretched to grab hold of the knob and slowly inches the door open. The sight revealed to him, is one that grabs him by the heart and squeezes painfully. His Kate, his Mike and his Sam—are huddled together on the floor of the closet with tear-tracks staining each of their beautiful faces. “D-daddy,” his oldest Kate says brokenly. “Mommy… mommy left”. And she begins to cry, her little brothers following her lead. And that’s when he notices the vastness of the half-empty closet open before him. As his children cry and his own tender heart breaks, he comes to the realization that the large partly empty closet, in which the four of them are huddled, is filling up—with the sorrow of children losing their mother and a man losing his wife, the confusion and anger of her leaving without a word, the fear of something having happened to the kids, the love he has for his children and the strength to go on because of that love.
Photograph © Fatuma Hydara 2009, NY.
Short Story © Fatuma Hydara, 2011.
Huddled on a flattened cardboard box and wrapped in old blankets, I try to sleep to no avail. Asleep, the hunger pangs will be less crippling. Asleep, I can dream and pretend that nothing has changed. Asleep, I am in my 3-bedroom apartment on Madison. It’s nearly Christmas and the tree’s decorated with countless ornaments in red, green, silver and gold. There’s popcorn strings and strings of light, all topped with a beautiful shining angel. I’m on the couch and “The Nightmare Before Christmas” is playing on a 60 inch flat screen. It’s my daughter’s favorite movie and she’s tucked underneath my left arm, partly in my lap and half asleep. My lovely, beautiful wife is on my right. As close as can be allowed, her thigh is touching mine and her head is lying on my shoulder. I feel the warmth of her thigh against mine, her left hand in my right and her small puffs of breath softly grazing my neck. The warmth spreads through every cell in my body and makes me feel alive.
I gently smile in my sleep, just before the dream changes. Now, there’s screaming, arguing, accusations, words I don’t want to hear. I work too hard. I never spend time with them. There’s another woman. I want a divorce. She takes everything from me—my little girl, the house, the car, but most of all the warmth. I begin dying slowly inside without the warm contentment. And the final, piercing blow to my already cold heart—joining the ranks of the unemployed.
From there, it’s a nauseating roller coaster ride through emptying my saving, moving to a much smaller apartment and beginning the job hunt. The confidence that I’d be employed soon made way for an anxiety as the bills came more frequently than the phone rang. Then depression as I realized I truly had nothing—no family, no job, no money, no life. Three months soon turned into six, which turned into a year. By then, it was too late. My savings were gone and the unemployment checks were not enough to continue paying rent. I was on the streets.
I wake suddenly and for a few seconds, I believe that the lights reflecting off the glass doors are red, green, silver and gold and I feel warm. Soon, the cold seeps into the cushion of warmth left by my dreams, dispelling them and I’m jolted back into my harsh reality. I am invisible, insubstantial. I am one of the city’s homeless.
