A Dictionary Void of Meanings

A red ball rolled across the street, a child ran behind it unaware of the taxi cab driving down the road. Ziad was startled. A routine walk from work to home had brought his mind back to the void. A deep, black, silent void. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes grew teary. The loud scratch of the tires on the asphalt, the kid’s mom yelling, and the wide-eyed cab driver were suddenly too much to handle for him. He kept walking forward without glancing at the street, as if on autopilot, going straight home — no detours today. He had left work wanting to eat lunch, but his hunger had completely vanished. He didn’t even look back to see that nothing had happened to the kid; the cab had stopped in time to prevent a tragedy.

Ziad got to his shared flat on the outskirts of Manchester and couldn’t escape that ominous void in his mind — the early years of his life. He couldn’t remember anything from his childhood back in Palestine, but today’s event had left a mark on him. As if he had seen a revival of something in his past play out on the street. Did I get hit by a car as a child? he wondered.

Many kids live in this small town. Ziad, who is now thirty, sees plenty of them playing in the park in front of his house, some children also come to the library where he works with their parents. Childhood was a word that had a dictionary meaning, but meant nothing to him.

It was already 3 p.m., and the distant chatter of kids and parents walking out of schools lingered. The little school in Gaza, playing hopscotch, feeling hungry constantly, they were all echoes in his mind. He knew so little of himself. Those early years were blurred out, as if wiped away.

As he drifted into sleep that evening, the void took over his dreams. It was like he was blind. He heard loud bangs, impossibly fast patterns of shots fired, the metallic sound of bullet casings, screaming, lots of screaming. He felt sand aggressively hit his face and fill his nostrils, the warmth of tears down his face, his mother’s strong grip on his hand. “My love, go — it’s time for hide and seek.” He heard his mother’s broken voice. Pitch darkness, but vivid nothingness. He started hyperventilating and woke up.

Ziad headed to work the next morning. On his stroll down the street where the ‘incident’ had happened, he saw the boy again. He was sitting inside his house's lawn now playing with toys. The little gate to the lawn, the one that led to the curb and then the street, had been closed. The lock on the gate seemed to gleam in the early morning’s sun. He gripped his books tightly as he passed the house where the kid played with toy cars, balls, action figures.

Inside the library where he worked, there was a small children’s section of books. Colorful, full of images and brief sentences. He saw the way kids were drawn to them, couldn’t look away from them, and some even begged their parents to take these books home. Adults liked books too, but not like this. He had read some of the children’s books, but they didn’t say much. It was seeing the kids devour them with their eyes that moved something in him. He imagined it was like the first time he saw a land without a war.

“Ziad, would you like to join us for a roast at home tonight, darling?” said Mrs. Harmon, as if emerging out of nothingness into Ziad’s ear. God knows how long she was standing behind him. “Uh, yeah, that sounds nice,” he uttered without thinking, moved merely by the scare she had just given him.

Mr. and Mrs. Harmon were a pleasant couple in their sixties that had given Ziad the chance to work at their library. They had owned it for around thirty years and had seen the decrease in readers that time brought. The flow of customers was scarce. But Ziad had come in with a makeshift CV, a true passion for books, and nowhere else to go. The Harmons thought it over and, after all these years, they were tired and thankful for the help.

That evening as they ate roast, Ziad remembered that the Harmons had children. Sometimes they bickered so much, he forgot they were parents. Their children were adults now, a bit older than him in fact, but he remembered as he saw pictures of their daughter getting married in their living room. Their son had a picture of his university graduation.

“Do you have pictures of them when they were children?” Ziad asked.

“Of course we do, darling,” said Mrs. Harmon. “We just have a few recent ones outside, the childhood photos are too old.”

“Yes, and soon we will have a new granddaughter to brag about!” Mr. Harmon added cheerfully. Ziad smiled at the news.

“Do you remember their childhoods?” the words slipped out without thinking. He blushed.

“Uh… yeah, a little bit, why, love?” Mrs. Harmon asked in her tender voice.

But how could Ziad answer? He started fidgeting.

“Oh, are you feeling a paternal instinct?” She followed up.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. He didn’t even have a partner. He kept his eyes on the plate and just shook his head no.

“No, just asking”.

Mrs. Harmon looked for Ziad’s eyes, but to no avail.

She stood up and brought the memories from her days as a young mother. Ziad hesitated, but Mrs. Harmon was so genuinely nice, he drew in closer to her to see the photo album.

“Darling, you’ll have to show me what you were like as a child too!” she said innocently. Ziad looked into her eyes, gulped unintentionally and couldn’t say anything. “Oh, God, I’m so stupid”, she let out.

“Oh no, please, it’s normal, everyone has pictures.” Ziad tried to comfort her.

Mrs. Harmon’s eyes got watery. She moved closer to hug Ziad. Mr. Harmon approached and put a hand over his shoulder. So this is what it's like, he thought. To feel safe.