A Memory, A Reflection, An Anticipation
by Franz J. T. Lee
(This "precious jewel" I dedicate to
my long lost Daughter, Frances)
Raindrops keep falling .....
1941. A dawn. What a morn!
Something is born. Mankind is mourning. Europe is moaning, groaning.
An inner, innermost, profound memory. My first, conscious reflections.
It's raining, a soothing, smoothening, natural music comes from somewhere, from everywhere, from above, from the zinc roof.
Raindrops clash and crash against the window pane. I enjoy how they tremble, how they shiver, how they quiver. Some creep down in long, irregular lines. Some hide behind each other. Others roll, storm ahead. I'm fascinated; I am pondering, wondering, learning.
In each one of them, mirrored, I see zillions of flashes, beautiful images of a fantastic world. I see many wonderful worlds, new awakening worlds, sparkling, silvery ones: some obscure ones at rest, some bright ones in motion. Some I cannot fathom, others I cannot even describe.
Raindrops, raindrops, everywhere. Far away, on the mountain slope, I see a majestic rainbow. I dream about my pot of golden gifts, but my pot has a shadow, a strange reflection, a multi-coloured lid. Does everything in the world have a shadow? Do shadows separate us? Are there worlds without shadows?
Towards the other side, there, huge mountains of shadows, of dark clouds approach. Look, look. Each and everyone has a silvery lining. What's behind them? Behind all this? The Sun? But, then ....
"Fransie, get away from the window, you'll catch a cold."
Back to reality, to the world of do's and don'ts; back to what to do and what not to do.
That is a baby's question, the nuisance that frustrates naissance, the nightmare of a new-born.
Yet, never mind, I will never ever forget my galaxies of magic worlds; I will always long to hear my enchanting music, to see my sparkling raindrops, to sense my dark, silvery clouds, to feel my gigantic rainbow again ... to touch my cool glass pane.
Perhaps, one day, very, very soon, they will return to me again, to all of us - who knows, probably in the morn's morn.
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