When the World Goes Quiet

by Gian Sardar

Bombs and guns and starvation are obvious killers, but what loneliness does simply takes longer.

It’s one thing to make it out of this war barely intact; it’s another to know you inflicted some of the harm yourself.

She stands, woozy at first, and sees him watching her, his hand out as if ready to grab her. And it’s this, more than the food, more than his sparing the garden, that makes her feel as though she might cry. It’s one second and just one person, but it’s concern. He’s worried about her, and ready to help. Everyone, it seems, expects her to help—never the other way around.

But the need to be right—to insist you are right—has caused more problems in the world than actually being wrong.

Before the war, life was so easy. So good. And they never knew. They never knew how lucky they were, that they could walk, just to walk. To feel the air along the canals. To see their friends and stop to admire lacemakers and chocolatiers. Restaurants were packed, sauces rich and thick. Plates left behind, piled with food. So much food, scraped into bins. And they didn’t know. They didn’t know what a privilege it was, to throw things away and to linger on bridges. To not be asked to do impossible things, or to live in a world where turning on a friend makes any sort of sense, however briefly.

“Degas said that art is not what you see but what you make others see. So don’t be ashamed. Be excited. And inspired. And be thankful, because what you have is a gift.”

You think like an artist. Different is not wrong.

“Sometimes I wonder what my mother would’ve thought. If she were alive during this. If I have a hard time thinking things will get better—that they even can get better—imagine her.” For a second she’s quiet, listening to what sounds like a bird outside, until she realizes it’s a squeaking wheel. “Everything seems broken. I don’t know how we go back from here.” “Well, you don’t go back, do you? At least you hope you don’t.” Coletta jots down another number. “You might take comfort in this, and you might not, but life is repetitive. Maybe it’s the journey humans need. But every so often, a war or a plague or what have you. A hundred years pass, and our streets look different, so different that we think we’re nothing like the people who came before us. Our situations, our circumstances, they’re all new. They must be, we think, because we’re so different. We want to be different. But at the core, everything’s the same. A hundred years ago, two hundred years ago. The same lessons learned differently. And no matter when it is, you can guarantee something’s waiting in the wings to make us feel broken, but more importantly, to force us to find a way through.” A pause. “Your mother was the one who told me that.”

Evelien, my friend, take big, selfish gulps of air when you can, because they are never guaranteed.

The hardest thing, she understands, is acceptance.

“He always said he didn’t know what he was getting into when he hired you, but you were a gift he’d forever be thankful for.”

“My dear, we may have borrowed you for a little while, but you belong only to yourself.”