When I sit to think and write, I sometimes think of it as a conversation with a friend over a coffee. Mrs Ammar is one of those friends whose comforting sense of presence, and whose chipped mosaic coffee table and wonky IKEA stools in its setting afore a wall of books is one of my favourite memories to evoke, and then the words simply flow.
There were times in the past couple of years when there was nobody else to turn to but she, a silent witness. Her endurance and her determination to be all that she can be is always an inspiration. I am glad that she had enjoyed this blog, and had even given my 'Machinist' moniker, as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for that, Bibi, a gift of a name is a special thing.
Mrs Ammar, my friend, is enduring another personal loss now. I felt it as a keen twisting in the guts when she had sent the news, because although it's a loss I cannot imagine or even pretend to know, I do know how it is to lose a dream.
If I could ever put it in words, Rilke had done it better. Bibi, this is for Umaira, who I wish we could have had the pleasure to know. Please accept, with sympathies:
She who did not come, wasn't she determined
nonetheless to organize and decorate my heart?
If we had to exist to become the one we love,
what would the heart have to create?
Lovely joy left blank, perhaps you are
the center of all my labors and my loves.
If I've wept for you so much, it's because
I preferred you among so many outlined joys.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Last post this year. Good night, all.