My Broken Knight

As I bid farewell to Julia, I get into my car and feel a nostalgic longing for a Knigh , a knight whose picture I once posted on Facebook. It was a Sunday morning or a Saturday. As usual, I drove around the city, heading towards Garage Sales. Ever since snow woman took my husband away to Alaska, exploring the Garages Sales had become a pleasant pastime for me, keeping me occupied. I would go from one neighborhood to another, discovering houses through signs on side streets or intersections and stopping by to check them out. Sometimes, I would buy something.

One day, I picked up a garage sale flyer from Green Valley Street, and drove to Patrick Street, which back then was just a street and not a name that would remind me of anyone. From Patrick Street, I made my way to Picus Street, in search of a house that was having a Garage sale. I had to turn into one of the side streets. I did. I turned and reached at a verdant square with a tree with peculiar stems. as always, I got out of the car and started taking photos of the tree that seemed three hundred years old.

I thought I spotted a yard sale behind the trees. I headed towards a house that was barely visible behind them. No, there was nothing. I turned back and saw someone on the other side of the square standing in front of a house . Someone who looked familiar. I walked closer, it was a knight, like the knights of the thirteenth or fourteenth century. He had a helmet that obscured his face, a long sword in his hand, and his legs were covered with iron cleaves. I got closer; he seemed to be guarding the door. I took pictures of him from the left and right.

He didn’t flinch. It’s not that he didn't see me; no, he couldn’t flinch. He was made of iron. It was unclear how many years he had been standing there. Parts of his body were rusted. Suddenly, I thought perhaps he had been waiting for me all these years. I thought he had been waiting, and I was late.

When I took his first picture, I didn't tell him that he was rusted. I told myself what's the point of hurting a man who has been standing still, enduring the passage of years, waiting for you to arrive, and you've arrived so late that he's rusted, he's rusted.

That's why I said, "I am pleased to meet you. Very pleased." I said it loud enough for me to hear. He said, "So late... late..."

His voice was as if he was groaning. It was as if someone inside my mind was groaning. I didn't pay attention or deliberately ignored it, and kept taking pictures, but his voice didn't let me calm down.

My entire longing began when I realized that a few pictures of the knight were not enough.It was from that moment that all my longings began because I realized that with these few pictures of the iron man, I couldn't satiate myself. I hadn't taken pictures of him in a way that would satisfy me. Something was missing.

That night, the more I looked at the pictures, the more I became convinced that he was the knight who was supposed to come and rescue me from this wretched and desolate loneliness, from tedious exhausting and cold nights, from unbearable longing, from the cold that always penetrated my soul

That night, I dreamt of him coming to my house. I was taking of his helmet. I was wiping away the rust marks. I was talking of his iron boots. I massaged his fingers, and as I slept, I lay beside him, gently playing with his hair.

By dawn, I was up . I told myself that no matter what, I had to bring my Knight home. A lonely house where no one else lived except me.

But before leaving, I posted some of his pictures on Twitter and Facebook.

And I did the right thing, because if it weren't for the photos and the films, I would have thought I was just imagining things. No knight, no picture.

All morning on the way, I wondered why I hadn't taken more pictures of him, why I hadn't taken off his helmet to see his face, why I hadn't held his rusted hands, why I hadn't embrace him, why I hadn't nestled in his arms.

But not only that morning, I could never find him again. The arena, trees, houses, and alleys were all gone.. It was as if everything had turned into water and sunk into underground. For a year, I went every Sunday, but everything seemed to have happened in a parallel time and in a non-terrestrial place.

I searched every side street one by one. There were no trees, no arena, no knight. . It was as if I had imagined it all, imagined the strong lush trees, imagined a knight rusting while waiting for me. As always, when I fell in love, I started reciting poems for him, writing letters. writing. writing.

But perhaps my destiny is to lose the men I love. I lost him.

Finally, I convinced myself to stop searching. But these questions still lingered with me forever. Why did he cry when he saw me? Did he remember something? Did he want to say something? Did he want to say something? Did he want to say "You're the one I've been waiting for." or "You're not the one I've been waiting for"

Maybe if I could talk to someone, I'd feel better. But who could I talk with about the knight ? No one. I just had to pretend that he was a good material for a story, otherwise, what else could falling in love with a rusty knight signify except madness

I still ask myself, how did I spend hours wandering the streets and alleys to find an iron man? How did I struggle for breath, and how did words circulate in my mind a thousand times to become a love story or a poem?

you see not only Patrick but even a rusty knight can make me homeless in my own house, in my own city.

Julia has gone. I sit behind the steering wheel, mourning in front of the library. I turn on the car. I need to go and find him; , maybe he's back. A knight rusting while waiting for a woman can't disappear that easily. A knight crying over unformed memories.

But before reaching Windmill Street, I turn towards the side of the house.

My seventy-year-old mind prevents me from moving forward.

Falling in love with a broken knight is nothing but madness.But at seventy, I don't care anymore. Seventy is good. The woman I am no longer thinks about disgrace or shame. That's why I am writing the stories of the pool ; I tell myself. that the tale of the rusted Knight is even more stranger than Patrick's story. That's why I can openly share with you about those nights when I shed tears for the Knight’s rusted feet.

Often, I think, if only he knew he had to keep moving, not standing still , he would have definitely reached me.. My Iron Man... his shoulders were rusted, his entire height... an Iron Man.

If he wasn’t rusty’ I could have sat beside him. Maybe he would have sat down too. I could have held his arm and pretended that life is so beautiful.

Isn't it beautiful when someone puts his hand behind your shoulder, , sits next to you,sighs or looks at you?

That's how I imagined talking to him in my fantasies.

If I see you again, I will wipe the rust off your feet.

I will pull up your helmet so you can see the world more clearly.

I will clean your sword, the sword on which sparrows perch without fear.