Nas Jolaade

Quiet Haibun

Canada, 1972

the snow had started speaking in soft dialects against the windshield when father said, real men don’t yell—they resonate. and i, ten and pocket-sized, watched him feed the heater a tired sigh. we arrived like afterthoughts—coat buttons undone, his loafer shoes trailing an echo into the crowded room where laughter curled like cello strings. he nodded at the host, tapped a rhythm on my shoulder: every man needs a party he can listen to. he meant the cellist, a caramel-toned lady in blue wool bending sorrow into melody. around us: whiskey breaths, wood-paneled walls, men named Maurice, Glenn—and women who kissed the air instead of cheeks. somewhere between movements, he whispered: this is how life goes—you show up, you listen, you leave before they ask you to. i didn't understand, so his hands stayed folded the way prayers do when met with god's quietness. at interlude, he gave me ginger ale and a silence i now call love. outside, the snow kept falling like an applause too polite to wake the dead.

mid-winter…
stillness hangs
between a leopard & its dying cub. 

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