by Melanie Rae Thon
They have stories to tell, but language fails them.
Together we have painted a mural that circles the room: night into day, rainforest to desert, up to the white Himalayas, down to the blue-green ocean. A wide river runs through it all, bringing us here together. Everywhere you look you find another tiny face: poison arrow frog, coiled cobra, pink flamingo, Chihuahuan raven—black baboons and golden lemurs—scarlet ibis, vervet monkeys—a tortoise swimming in the sand, an owl that looks prehistoric—leopard, lion, fallow deer, fish flying in the treetops—a luna moth with no mouth, one sweet-smiling camel. Behind every stone and tree, another almost human child appears as shadow, ready to flee in fear or leap out and kill you.
Last week, two nine-year-old girls and one small boy who survived a fire in their school in Guadalajara came prepared to dance, because they said, We have no words to tell it.
They were only children wearing bicycle helmets, little firefighters with flashlights, illuminating our stunned faces one by one—tiny dancers finding sacks of flour, using all their strength to lift the bodies of their friends and carry them outside to weeping parents—three sad survivors crawling down hallways, choking on an illusion of smoke, discovering one slumped teacher who might live if only they could drag her out together.
They wanted us to witness their grief, to feel the weight of loss in their little bodies, the weightlessness of love for the dead who come as smoke and air, who are forever with us. They cradled the sacks or lifted them to their shoulders. They gave us hope in the face of despair: they believed to the end of time that they might find one child crouched in the dark, blinded by fear and flame, still miraculously breathing.
They gave me faith: their silent bodies said, All things by love are possible. I saw through the veil of smoke: you and you and I—all who have known harm, all who have given grief, all who have touched terror—might dance our story one day so that each could see what the other suffered. We might let our bodies speak the truth, and take turns carrying one another.
"Translation" originally appeared, in longer form, in Five Points. It appears here by permission of Melanie Rae Thon.
All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2015 by its authors.
Melanie Rae Thon's fiction has been translated into French, Italian, German, Spanish, Croatian, Finnish, and Farsi. Her most recent work appears in the O. Henry Prize Stories 2006, Pushcart Prize XXX, and the literary journals Agni, Five Points, and Antioch Review. Before coming to Utah in 2000, she taught literature and writing at Emerson College, Boston University, University of Massachusetts, Syracuse University, and Ohio State University. She teaches fiction at the University of Utah.
|Issue Fourteen (September 15, 2006): Everything by CB Anderson «» Twelve Steps Down by Mark Budman «» Hands by Stace Budzko «» A Boy Makes a Bow Makes a Man by Robert Earle «» Chancing by Utahna Faith «» Silver Spur Cafe by Sherrie Flick «» A Few Notes on the Remarkable Sighting of the Bishop-Fish of Smith Mountain Lake by R. L. Futrell «» Spooks by David Galef «» It'll Never Work Out for the Two-Headed Boy by Bayard Godsave «» Utilitarianism by Tom Hazuka «» Vandals by Jennifer A. Howard «» The Four Horses by G.A. Ingersoll «» Carrots and Plum Blossoms by Kit Coyne Irwin «» At the Well by Barbara Jacksha «» The Shanghai Cut by John McCaffrey «» Blank by Peter Mehlman «» The Reunion by Christopher Merrill «» Mullet Man, P.I. by Stacey Richter «» Bruce Holland Rogers by Bruce Holland Rogers «» Tamazunchale by Robert Shapard «» Three Steps for Nunzio by Ersi Sotiropoulos, translated by Kay Cicellis «» The Angel by J. David Stevens «» Translation by Melanie Rae Thon «» Diamond District by Katharine Weber «» Ancestors by Kathleen Wheaton «» Cover Art "Despair" by Marty D. Ison «» Letter From the Editor|