Aïcha.

I wish I could draw.

I would have drawn for you her exact picture.

It was late in the night and she was sitting all by herself on the three-seat bench on the train. Draped in a laced orange burqa, this former beauty wore horn-rimmed glasses which went well with her wrinkles. Her skin shone, almost competing with her Swarovski bracelet that she wore with élan. I almost smiled at the vanity, one that I assumed.  But this was not why she caught my eye.

She was engrossed. Her crystal studded bracelet laden hand was holding this copy of the holy Quran, her lips mouthing her lord’s diktat. No this was not why she caught my eye.

Her other hand was slowly patting her bosom, right over her heart. Have you seen a mother patting a child’s forehead as she lulls him to sleep. Yes, just like that. She was slowly rhythmically thumping her heart.

She looked at me, saw me awed and as if she read my mind, she smiled at me in acknowledgement.

I wish I could draw. 

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