She stepped into the land of her forefathers. The soil beneath her feet was soft against her skin.
Almost welcoming.
She bent over and grabbed a handful of it. She let it crumble between her fingers. The contrast of the soil against her pale skin made her rub it into her hands even more.
Some of it fell back into its rightful place.
The smell lingered, lingered and lingered.
What was she doing here?
She remembered a strange floral scent. Some time at around sunrise after she was done from her morning prayer. She opened the door and stepped out. Like a curious child seeking adventure, she followed the scent.
She walked far from home, barefoot.
And she walked, walked and walked.
Her feet captured the essence of the earth beneath her. As if it wanted to capture all the stories, all the things this land has ever seen. It’ll be forever stored between the cracks of her toes and lines on her feet.
And alas,
She stumbled upon a field of lilies.
Nothing but a sea of floral white field.
She laid down on it. And they welcomed her with open arms.
They whispered tales of the women in her family. The same women who ran thru these fields when they were young and free. How their long locks of hair always smelled of flowers and there’s always petals in their braids.
“Go to the oak trees” they whispered.
They guided her back to the forest. She followed the trail of flower petals that fell like breadcrumbs.
She found the oak tree.
How it stood tall and proud. Like many men in her family. Its branches spread far and very high.
“Khalo..khaltoo..setto…” she started naming all the members of her family, branch by branch till she lost count.
“Come closer..” it whispered.
She took two steps forward, sat down. And listened.
“Welcome home, child.”
***
text // jinan
photo // sehribanu turan
