half past nomad

The hum of the fan in the room is reassuring. My little yellow legal pad flutters about, a paper butterfly too tired to fly, too smart to escape. Clothes lay scattered about in the bedroom; belts here, ties there, shirts shirts oh everywhere. The bed, amen, is clear of any debris. There’s a small clay ornamental trashcan that I have many times tried removing from my bedroom, yet it finds its way back home; how will you find your way home when I drop you out of the window 6 floors high little clay pot?

The clay pot is a hideous little disfigured item. I don’t know how or why my parents could even fathom purchasing this item. Surely, there were tough times then to have forced their hands into such a torturing decision. I know I’m in pain. Last year, my mom decided, as we were flying out of Pakistan, to express her love for clay pots, dishes and glasses. By buying them and trying vainly to stuff them in her suitcase in an attempt to smuggle them home. I forgot about them, packed them and sent them into the plane’s cargo. Four hours later, the open suitcase revealed a massacre unlike any other in the history of the family; there was red broken clay everywhere.

The moral of the story was simple. Don’t fly Aero Asia even if you’re desperate. I forgot. The airline sucked. That’s why I remember the broken clay pot. To those adventurous souls who do desire thrills unlike none before, unlike none ever to come, please sir, proceed to departure gate number 6. Thank you and we hope you enjoy your flight.

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 8th, 2005 at 12:01 am and is filed under General Lee.