Meena (Part IX)

Nothing amused Darwich; not the radio nor the newspapers or the castles on the hills. His friends had tried everything to reach him, but in the face of distance, everything stands still. Darwich's relationship had taught him that, along with many other things. So a month after he disappeared wholly, when he came back talking about asking his partner's hand in matrimony, he looked like Eros set off his wings. That's what Meena said.

This interview wasn't in a studio, a hospital room or Diya's house. It was in Azhar's garden in Cairo, as Meena wanted it to be. He wore a shirt of white silk and his usual hair of Elvis Presley.

"Today is a good day;" he said as I sat down. "Badr just finished his book."
Badr writes too? I asked.
A veiled woman passed by asking for some pounds. She held a kid in her arms and a prayer in her chest that she recited.
"Comic book; he draws comics speaking in words and signs, as a way of learning sign language."

Storytelling _said Meena_ is what separates humans from other living things but also what often binds them together, and it was what all the residents of the house of wrinkles had in common. Aside from Diya's gossip and Darwich's favorite Arabic poet played in his room, Meena, Badr and Khader occasionally helped each other with words. Badr wrote his comic ideas, Khader wrote his songs and Meena wrote this.

"We pass by signs everyday; sentimental gestures, bullies' violent movement, a hand of someone in need... but Badr's signs are the only one I've grown accustomed to reading." He continued, then signed, want to walk around? 

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