The Wick Day

“In the end, everything will be alright, and if it is not alright, it is not the end.”
Because I believe that beautiful endings are truly possible, I stand completely at odds with the world around me. While others embrace cynicism—mistaking happiness for a fleeting illusion—I hold fast to the conviction that every story can reach a meaningful resolution, if only we have the courage to seek it.
— Jenny Hussien Ali, The Wick Day
~
A heavy cloud had settled over me all week, the kind that makes even breathing feel like labor. I was sitting with my grandmother—a woman whose wisdom was never loud, but steady as stone—trying to pick out an old record to lift the silence.
When I turned around, I caught her at the table, carefully pressing a warm iron over a sheet of yellowed, badly crumpled paper.

“What on earth are you doing, darling?” I asked, pausing with the vinyl in my hands.

She didn’t look up immediately. She smoothed the margin with her thumb, letting the steam rise between us before offering a soft, knowing smile. “As you can see, my sweet. Flattening out what got folded.” She finally met my eyes. “You’ve been carrying a dark sky behind your eyes these days. What’s troubling your heart? Come, join me.”

I let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Join you in what? Ironing crumpled letters?”

“Yes, dear,” she said quietly, her smile widening just a fraction. “It’s remarkable training for the soul. It teaches the hands how to bring order back to something we thought was ruined.”

I stepped nearer to my grandmother, seeking not an escape, but the anchor of her warmth.

"What is written in those letters, Mum?" I asked.

She looked up, her face softening into a quiet smile. "Sit beside me, my sweet delight," she said, her fingers resting on the crinkled paper. "Do you want me to read a part of one?"

"Please."

Taking a deep breath, she began. The background music swelled softly, grounding her deep, serene voice as she read:
“I am but a captive to your stars, counting every constellation as a second stolen from your warmth. Let the silver moonlight claim my breath-;- let the wind sweep my pain, my sorrows, and my aching far into the land of oblivion.”
The room fell into the rhythm of a serenade. I held my breath, listening. The last word lingered in the air like a fading musical note before she finally fell silent.

"Who wrote this, Mum?" I asked, my voice hushed so as not to break the quiet. "It is so deep... so beautiful."

She rested her hands on her lap, smoothing the crinkled edges of the paper with slow, deliberate care. "All old letters are deep and beautiful, my sweetheart," she replied, her eyes reflecting the dim light of the room. "Because they were written to us, poured -dir-ectly from hearts that are so remarkably similar to our own."

She looked at me, her gaze carrying the weight of decades. "Let me tell you a story. A very old tale about a grandmother and her granddaughter. Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes, please," I replied quickly, leaning closer to her warmth.

"Long ago, in an ancient city built of white stone beside a restless sea, lived an old woman and her young granddaughter. The old woman was the village weaver, but it was whispered that she did not just weave wool-;- she wove the histories and truths of the people.

One evening, as the silver moonlight spilled across their courtyard, the young girl watched her grandmother working at the loom. She noticed that the old woman was weaving a heavy, dark thread—the color of shadows and deep earth—into a beautiful tapestry of gold and azure.

Why do you ruin the bright sky with such dark thread, Grandmother? the girl asked, frowning. Shouldn t a tapestry be filled only with light and beauty?

The grandmother paused, her hands resting on the wooden loom. Come here, little bird, she said. When the girl stepped close, the grandmother held up the fabric.

Look closely. If I weave only with gold, the tapestry blinds the eye, and the picture is lost in the glare. The dark thread is sorrow, loss, and the heavy truths of the world. It is only when the gold thread crosses over the dark thread that the stars in the tapestry begin to shine.

She wrapped the rough, dark thread around her granddaughter s small fingers. Never fear the dark threads of your life, nor try to pull them out. They are what give your soul its depth. It is the darkness that teaches the light how to be beautiful. "

I looked down at my own hands, half-expecting to feel the coarse bite of a dark woolen thread binding my fingers. Instead, there was only the soft, warm weight of my grandmother’s palm resting over mine. Beside me, my grandmother’s breathing was a steady, rhythmic metronome beneath the music. I turned my hand over, threading my fingers gently through hers.. The room was quiet again, save for the slow, sweeping melody of the record player, but the air felt entirely changed. I reached out, my fingertips lightly tracing the smoothed, fragile edge of the letter she had just ironed. The heavy cloud that had pressed against my chest all week didn t vanish, but its weight suddenly shifted. It felt less like a storm meant to ruin me, and more like the necessary shadow the old weaver had spoken of. For the first time in days, I took a full, unlabored breath.
Jenny Hussien Ali ~

Rate the article
Bad	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10	Very good
Result : 100%							Participated in the vote : 1