The Angel Of Zanzibar Street
Today, I met an old friend for the first time.
No, not those fellow travelers on a smoky Saturday night at the Dew Drop Inn.
And certainly not those fervent, hopeful worshipers the next morning at Saint Pat’s across town.
Not even that writer’s blank page which became home for dreams unrealized and life unfulfilled.
No, this friend was one who existed only in my mind (or was it my heart?).
I believe her name was Faith.
Faith, the friend who would hale me as the current love affair went south; no words, just a smile and a caring hand to a slumped shoulder.
When the excited dream of the next business venture or failed novel dissolved into a puddle of bounced checks and cancelled hopes, my friend would pick me up with a firm gaze and determined jaw, pointing me, without words, to the next opportunity and with a tender but firm touch, nudge me toward tomorrow.
Faith believed in me when I had precious little reason to believe in myself. And I loved her for it.
And then came Eliza. And as quick as that, my friend was gone.
And, foolish me, I didn’t lament Faith’s passing. Faith was a shadow and the sun that shone from Eliza dispelled it.
Faith was a belief in things unseen and Eliza was real, more real than my hopes and certainly my fears.
I believed in Li and she in me.
And because of Eliza, I could write.
For years and years, I could write.
I’ll never forget that first couplet inspired by Li .
“She was a dreamer and a schemer...
And my one last chance redeemer”
And so she was.
And as those years passed and the words seemed to flow. That 1st magazine article was completed (and accepted)!
The novel that lived as a hermit in my desk drawer pushed its way back to life - the same characters now alive because I now knew life.
So busy, so happy, so distracted, so surprised.
Surprised that I didn’t hear the quiet cough that seemed to linger
Or smiling eyes that seemed to sleep a bit too much.
The garden of our life grew such splendid flowers that I never noticed the choking weeds spreading at its base.
And the day came, that winter day, with its killing frost.
And as quickly as it sprouted, the garden was still and the flower, my flower, was gone.
And as I left our garden behind, and wiped the last of the dirt from my hands, my tears cleansed them of the risk of ever being left behind again.
We have precious little in this life and what we have we don’t own.
But I can own solitude and it’s constant companion, despair.
I thought of and longed for my long distant friend, for Faith, to return, but she was nowhere to be found.
And so I beat a weary retreat to that seaside bunker that had been ours - Zanzibar Street.
Not many friends, new or otherwise, on Zanzibar Street.
One last time, before my words breathed their last, I put pen to paper and wrote...
The statue stood there, white with dust,
Abject in the abbey square
And all who came to worship, wondered
Just how it came to be thus, there.
The question, quiet, on the lips
Of parishioners, as in they came.
For solace and solemnity
To seek their God, to call His name.
The priests, in all their finery
Could not say from whence it came
Just a statue - nothing more, they said,
And thus it shall remain.
And opening the desk drawer sepulcher, I buried my words as I had Eliza.
And the winter days turned to months, then to years.
I am now that man, that old man who I feared as a child. A silent mystery behind a locked door, peeling paint and a neglected lawn.
I’m staring at the wrong side of a window - thinking about a door that I can’t close.
Three years - three years of what promises to be a life sentence.
I hear her speak at times. Praising me for what only she could see, or scolding me for settling for less.
Or reading... today I heard her reading, reading a piece written for her as our life together was just beginning.
Reading on the other side of that dusty window pane.
And I heard the line...
“Fly, little bird, fly...”
Can it be?
“Fly, little bird, fly...”
Dare I look...?
“Fly, little bird, fly...”
And I drew back the curtain.
A young girl, knees resting on the cold soil of the abandoned garden.
A deep sorrow over her hopeful face. Sorrow not for herself but for that which lay in her trembling hands...
“Fly, little bird, fly...”
Her hopeful hands formed a cradle... or was it a manger?... for the object of her now-falling tears
She held this thing, this small sparrow, not in fear nor despair but in hope, in faith for that thing unseen.
And I saw my old friend that cold morning as her tears fell upon the still form in her hopeful hands.
Her hopes and my hopes, her prayers and my future held in those tiny, fragile, mighty hands...
And then.... a stir.
And rolling away the stone of lost time and wasted life
I opened the drawer of that neglected, dusty desk...
I sat and I wrote...
The statue stood and gathered dust
As years and decades rolled away.
Until one cold, dark winter’s eve,
An angel’s voice was heard to pray.
An angel may be anyone
About the task of God’s sweet grace.
This angel - a child - knelt in the snow
A single tear ran down her face.
For in her hand she held the life
Of one so weak, so cold, so small.
A sparrow fallen to the ground,
Her prayer breathed out, this angel’s call.
The child could hold her tears no more,
This angel’s cry - a sad refrain.
Her heart now burst - a reservoir
Of loving tears - a heart’s pure rain.
And as she cried, a song began
From far away - both sweet and still.
The statue’s face - now Glory-shown
Reflects the young child’s love until...
The statue’s eyes were filled with tears
It’s voice was raised in plaintive shouts.
And as the teardrops fell to earth
That parched dry place that gave it birth,
A single blade of grass did sprout.
More tears fell and more grass grew
And not just grass but flowers bloomed.
T’was winter’s end that came that day.
A young child’s loving heart held sway
As Springtime chased cruel death away.
The young child’s eyes began to clear
As the tiny bird moved in her hand
And taking wing, rejoined the air,
With skyward eyes, relieved the care
Of one so small, so pure, so fair.
And still it reigns, this living Spring,
It lives within the hearts of all
Who care more for the needs of those
Whose hopes and dreams lay in repose
Deadened by the world’s cruel pose.
And some still say, as they walk by
The churchyard where new life did grow,
That church bells peel and raise the voices
Of a long-dead soul who sang the praises
Of angel’s tears and children’s faces.
”Fly, Little Bird, Fly”…
Set wing toward the sun
Shake hands with the sky
And “Fly, little bird, fly”.
And as this miraculous new life wings toward its unbounded and limitless possibilities...
My old friend, Faith, beckons from the hopeful side of my long-shut door.
And I find the need to get my coat.