A Handful of Days Inside One Moment by Margarita Kominou

Tuesday, 22nd of July 2008. It was my fourth day on holidays and I was back home. An old friend, a new friend and I were sitting silently under a tree at the edge of the seashore. We were all exhausted from the strong sun, the heat and the mid-day hunger. Unconsciously looking at the calm light-blue sea, each of us was diving in our own thoughts.

The a capella singing of the harvest flies that meditated my thinking was soon accompanied by my old friend’s flute; an eastern wind melody twirling inside a warm metallic instrument, travelling to my ears and guiding my soul in memories of the past. I revisited scenes of random children playing with the snow in Kelvingrove Park some winters ago, a photograph-taking moment outside the Stirling Castle while eating ice-cream under the heavy rain, the view of the busy Princes Street from the top deck of a crowded Lothian bus, I recalled howls of laughter and sorrow, coloured in those vivid shades that the showers of rain so generously provide up in the northern part of the earth.

I could swear I have heard that tune before; I could swear it was always inside me, all those years. No matter where I was, I could swear it was always there; in all those tiny moments that make some days more memorable than others. But it was the first time that I heard it being played out.  

The journey in the past ended with the last note of that flute, bringing me back in touch with the present. The old friend, the new friend and I were still sitting silently under the tree at the edge of the seashore. There came that moment; that moment of absolute fulfilment. That moment where my only thought was: ‘I do not want or need anything more or less.’ Completeness. I am what I am, what I used to be and what I will be. Continuity. I am free!

I cannot remember the last time I had those powerful feelings of tranquillity. It must have been years ago. Or perhaps I have never consciously experienced them before; I never realised them when they happened. The new friend is now an old friend, the old friend a closer one.  Since then, I have ‘googled’ the tune and downloaded it. While writing this story I was listening to it. I so much look forward to the next similar unpredictable and uncontrollable instant when all those ‘days like this’ will meet again to dance as if stitched on the skirt of a Whirling Dervish.

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