disclaimer:
This is fiction. The views expressed in this publication do not reflect the views of the author. The stories themselves are based on imagined events. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is fictitious and should not be taken as representative.
LINK: the (real) story behind this story.
Written by Sebastian Usher in Jerusalem.
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“Are you tired yet?”
Do you know, it was the first joke I had heard in months.
I am not sure it was a joke. I smiled, at least, and my lips actually cracked from the shock. Look at me now and you will see two small pools of blood at either corner of my mouth - sickly, little red-brown decorations, on either side of each word. Strangely, I am proud of them. All things considered, I am happy that my wounds come from humour. The man who asked me was in a much worse way. I will not describe it because he was dying, and I do not know where he now is. (Somewhere, telling jokes, I hope.) He was lying on a marble ledge, and his eyes followed me as I made my way up past the old pharmacy. I was never sure if I should nod. Ma-ma had told me before she died that it was dangerous now, dangerous now to trust others. "Are you tired yet?" His voice sounded like the frayed end of a string. It was this that made me laugh.
You see, there are many of us, very many of us, telling jokes - quietly, unbelievably, as we wrap each bloodied arm in whatever rags of clothing appear to be the right size. “It seems they missed this blanket here…” “Yes, yes, it’s brown, but drink it - good for the gut. You’ll build up resistance.” “Are you sure you don’t just want us to leave you? Hahaha.” But these moments of humour were not selfless; they were for those who told them. The only way, I think, that many of us have kept on. And is there anything more natural? Try as you might, clouds still show up at the sunrise.
But this man had asked me a question as I was walking uphill, and for no reason. He did not know me, not like my family did. Still, he parted his lips, and dragged the air up from his lungs to call out to me. I was stunned, turned to him, and he asked again. "Are you tired yet?" There was a glint in his eye like the edges of light on a snowflake. Not that I had ever seen one. I smiled, and he smiled back, and closed his eyes, and I touched the edges of my mouth. I felt the sharp, sticky pain, and moved on, onwards, onwards up the hill. When I turned to look back over my shoulder, the man was sleeping. But now, this is the question I carry with me, that I go around, asking people. Ask it of yourself today, beneath whatever sun, or rain, or sand, or snow. Ask it, for my sake, if for nothing else. Ask it for his.
I will ask it for you.
Are you tired yet?
disclaimer:
This is fiction. The views expressed in this publication do not reflect the views of the author. The stories themselves are based on imagined events. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is fictitious and should not be taken as representative.
Read the full disclaimer.