Violet by Kusay A. Askar
I think I am just a dead person since the day I bought that place.
I should be there most of the time, standing for minutes, dreaming and listening for the roar of cars. I hate silence. The place is lying on the right side of Norre Bro Street not so far from the centre of Copenhagen, on the left side there are many oriental restaurants and the other various kiosks.
Danes tell me that the street never seemed as crowded as it is now, 30 years ago, nobody could see foreigners crossing pavements. I know well about my new place and the history of the street. It stays calm for a long time before changing to vital movement, as for me I don’t like silence, even I will be calm, in fact all these exteriors are attractive to me: the lights of the lamps during the nights, cars’ engines, wanderers, and drinkers.
The three irons gates are closed at seven o’clock, but I can feel the signs of life surrounding me.
While I stand there, the gardener takes me far from my obsessions; “You are lucky, there are no more places for sale in Assistant Kierkegaard grave yard.”
10, 000 croner, not a little amount but that is better than being buried in unknown place!
“Really,” I asked.
“There are a few places left,” added the gardener, then he bent on the other side of my neighbor’s tomb chopping faded rose branches. I open my purse and stretch my hand to give him some money:
“Please buy some plants for my tomb,” and I ensured just before leaving: “Remember I like violet, please.”
ABOUT THE WRITER:
Kusay A. Askar is an exiled writer from Iraq who currently lives in the USA.