If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

He remembers how easily he held the scissors, how delicate and precise his movements could be, then, his thumb and finger as flexible as when a stalking cat bends its body to the ground.

He remembers the soft weight of her hair across the palm of his undamaged hand, the slish of each careful cut he made, the broken handfuls of hair tumbling down her back and onto the floor like branches blown down a hillside.

The way she closed her eyes and quietly trusted him to not spoil her remarkable good looks. The two of them, in their empty kitchen, the noise of the world drifting in through shuttered windows, no conversation between them, his deep concentration, and when he had finished the bare floor around her chair was like a lake at midnight, still and dark and shining.

He does not speak of these things to people, there is nobody to speak them to here, nobody who knows. If he was asked he would say okay mostly, mostly I am okay, it is okay. But there are times when he feels too much, when if he could tell someone he would say I cannot possibly bear it anymore I want to tear the paper from the walls and fall to my knees and hammer upon the floor with my useless ruined fists.

He listens to the sound of the television from the front room, his daughter is watching, there are young people talking about music and football, he hears his daughter’s voice behind him and she says daddy have you ever seen any angels?

He pauses, his face squeezing into a slight frown, he wonders what his daughter is thinking of. He turns and he says I see you every day, and he squeezes her face with his wrists and blows a parpytongue onto her forehead. She wriggles away and says yuk and says no I mean real angels, and she skips onto the garden path and stands on one leg, looking at him, waiting for answers.

He shrugs slowly, he says anything is possible and smiles. Her eyes widen and she says have you have you? He looks at her and remembers the moment she was born, the nurse holding her up into the air like treasure lifted dripping from the sea, he remembers the long silent pause before that first scream of arrival, her tiny face screwed up into wet wrinkles like the stone of a peach.

He says angels? He says I do not know, I do not think so but I will keep looking. He says have you been looking? and she turns away and she nods shyly.

He says hey hey now don’t be ashame, it is okay to be looking for these things, it is good okay? and she looks at him.

He says what have you seen? and she doesn’t say anything, she stands a little closer and she says I saw wings in the sky at the top of the sky.

He says well that is a special thing, you have seen more than I have ever seen, well done you, and she smiles and her face is like the ribbon pulled from the wrapping of a gift.

He says do you want to see another special thing, and he points to the rooftops opposite, he says can you clap your hands for your daddy, and when she does so the whole ridgepole of pigeons springs up into the air, ballooning off down the street as a group, circling, landing on another rooftop in a matching single line.

He says, do you see them now, do you see they do not bump into one another, do you think this is special? and she looks at him and she thinks she should nod so she does.

He says you know in the place where you were born in, and he doesn’t say back home because he doesn’t want her to think like that but that is what he means, back home where they were a family and they belonged, he says in the

place where you were born in there would be flocks of thousands of birds, gathering at dusk, and when they turned in mid-air the whole sky would go dark as though Allah was flipping the shutters closed for a second. And not any of those thousands collided he says, do you think this is special?

He says my daughter, and all the love he has is wrapped up in the tone of his voice when he says those two words, he says my daughter you must always look with both of your eyes and listen with both of your ears. He says this is a very big world and there are many many things you could miss if you are not careful. He says there are remarkable things all the time, right in front of us, but our eyes have like the clouds over the sun and our lives are paler and poorer if we do not see them for what they are.

He says, if nobody speaks of remarkable things, how can they be called remarkable?

He looks at her and he knows she doesn’t understand, he doesn’t think she’ll even remember it to understand when she is older. But he tells her these things all the same, it is good to say them aloud, they are things people do not think and he wants to place them into the air.

Angels, he says, and she leans forward as if she is expecting him to pass on a secret. I do not know about angels he says, perhaps there are many, perhaps they are here now he says, and she looks around and stands closer to him and he smiles. But there are people too he says, everywhere there are people and I think it is easier to hold hands with people than it is with angels, yes?

He stops to get his breath back, he knows he is confusing her and maybe boring her, he knows that really he is saying these things to himself.

He says I’m sorry I am talking too much, he says come and give your daddy a hug, and she presses into him and he clamps his arms around her.

Now go and play again he says, the rain has gone, go and find your friend and keep looking for angels he says.

She stands away from him, she turns away, she turns back and kisses him on the mouth and she runs away down the street.

She runs past a rain-jewelled spider’s web laid out like lace across a pile of coat-hangers in a front garden.

She runs past a pigeon in a puddle, beating water across its wings.

She runs past number eighteen and she sees the boy who lives there talking to the girl from two doors down, she has short hair and glasses and she is smiling politely and he is blinking a lot and not quite looking at her as he says so you’re moving out then, and the armful of air between them is heavy and thick and impenetrable.

She runs past the old man from the next house along, he is standing in his front garden and the sound of his breathing is as though someone were forcing air through a cracked harmonica.

She runs past the young man scrubbing his trainers, he still can’t get them clean and he slams his hand into the water in frustration, the bubbles lifting up into the air and drifting down like diamond confetti.

She runs across the road, towards a woman leaning out of an attic window, hanging out a red blanket, shaking it like an air-traffic signal, she runs past the man at number twenty-five, he is back up his ladder, retouching the paint where the rain has streaked through it, a twirl of movement catches his eye and he turns to look through the open window of next-door’s bedroom, he sees a boy and a girl, the boy is sleeping, they are both naked and tangled up in each other, the light in the room is clean and golden and happiness is seeping out through the window, the girl looks at him and smiles and whispers good afternoon.

And the young girl runs to the end of the street and she still can’t see her friend with the ribbon anywhere, she looks up and she sees a crane arching over the rooftops.