At the dawning of her rebirth she expelled eight hundred thousand souls from their homes, from the land of their forefathers, from everything they’d ever loved, and she did it in an instant, taking from them everything they’d ever had except perhaps for their memories, most of all those searing memories burned into their souls on that hateful day. And then, with tears in her eyes she turned demurely towards the world, crying about the recent wrongs she’d had to endure, of the exponentially growing number of her dead brethren (it grew with each telling), slaughtered, in cold blood, by those who’d sought to steal her place among the first.

He glanced at her, confused at first, and then, dumbfounded.

How could someone who’d endured the suffering she described, so callously and indifferently cause so much agony and despair to so many obvious innocents, those who’d in fact taken her people in when everyone else had cast them out?

But her words had the power to completely obfuscate reality in a fog of verisimilitude, weaving flowering new worlds with her hands, worlds which seemed so much more real than the reality that until then he’d known. Her deep brown eyes and alabaster smile entrancing him so that although he knew what was true, he hardly cared, … as long as she was there with him.

Sad about all those others, but; … well, … she was so, so beautiful; in this new reality, they hardly seemed to matter.

She smiled to herself seeing his reaction, she smiled from a deep cool place within herself, a place profoundly hidden and secure, a place she knew he’d never sense and she thought to herself,

“I’ve only just begun”.

© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2014; all rights reserved