Catching up with celebration

One day a huge eagle visited us. It covered the sky with darkness. The sun remained guarded. We, the lesser mortals, thought it might be a curse thrown upon us by God. It could be a test for us, or God was sending a message that we had crossed our boundaries and had tried to become equivalent to Him. Hence, He was punishing us. We had created the most sophisticated transportation: big industries, computers, artificial intelligence, gorgeous houses, and medicines. They could neither prevent nor protect us from the darkness which gradually climbed down inside our lives. Yes, I am talking about the pandemic. It was hanging over our heads like Sisyphus’s mythical stone ball. We are trying to roll it up to the top of the hill, however, the stubborn piece without obeying rules is coming down to bang on us.

I was wondering how I was going to survive through the pandemic and bear this unsocial life. I became desperate and only discovered the grieving spots. My partner intervened. He rightly stopped me from watching the news of the daily deaths and showed how our lives can be divided into infinite parts, each with their own souls. He mixed alchemy, fairytales, and wonders of everyday life in our food, and the serene nature. He misbehaved while writing the allegories which whispered that erotics and a sacred relationship could be explored at the same time. He reminded me I might witness and respect wildness rather than trying to control it.

Citizens in our small Scottish town were always talking about burying dead bodies, near and dear ones were dying without giving us a scope to perform the last rites and rituals. Mourning was truly heard in the streets. I told my son, in London, over phone, ‘Groans still ring in my ears.’ Amidst the chaos and pandemonium, my son discussed dreams, ecstasy, and taught me how to use virtual platforms to cope with our gloom and memories. He assured me that he could tell me a story which would really uplift my spirits and take me to a zone where I would forget my paranoia and find solitude. It could be a collage of experiences, very transparent and not quite opaque. You might have great expectations from the story, but it would tell a simple story, a happy story, soaked in miracles. It could rarely sink you; would work just like a rubber tyre which would keep you floating in the swimming pool. A kind of magic perhaps would cut through my sadness where my favourite yellow yolk dripped down my mouth and lips. My caring son transferred his feelings inside me which helped me to migrate across imaginary fields. He took me through journeys inside the tranquil meadows, North Sea coastlines which healed each of my sorrow and removed the moss which I gathered only by calculating how illusions could be created. The messiah turned up to Edinburgh from London, supported me to give birth to a new, energised self.

He told me he had met a local chess player whose name was John under mysterious circumstances. One day a guy came to their back garden while he was smoking. He was startled. He reacted with a shade of doubt when John described my son’s big wooden chessboard. John said that he had observed my son playing chess from his window. He was the first person who didn’t discuss the pandemic. Instead, he brought a refreshing air by intensely talking about local chess tournaments where they all could participate by putting ten pounds each. He turned the moral anguish, and the horrific image of the pandemic into a positive and pleasant reflection when they could weave tales placing chess, the related heroisms, their individual wins, and their losses inside their fancy. John became part of my son’s life. I shared, loved and celebrated their innocent collective tales of positioning of their kings, queens, rooks, knights, bishops, and pawns, funny gimmicks, and sometimes harmless falsifications. They tried to translate their chess victories as historical truths. When my son narrated them for me, I tried to figure out all the imageries. I liked the way they coded and embedded their mystique information. They even played mentally when John would sit hanging his legs outside his attic window and my son in their garden. I laughed out listening to their weird style of communications – almost shouting, about their anticipatory moves.