The Memory of Flight

The feeling of that first flight surpassed any intensity she had ever experienced before. She had no frame of reference for this emotion, and she experienced it akin to a newborn, devoid of analysis, pure in the sensation of the moment. She had no thoughts, nor words floating in her mind. There was only silence and awe.

I’ve been coming to the café for three weeks when Camille B. shared the story of her captivity. We were sitting at the back, after the daily bustle had died down. She had a patch of flour on her chest, in the shape of an unidentified country. Her hands still glistened from the sunflower oil she used earlier to coat dumplings. We stared outside, watching the market wrap itself in the evening dust.

“On the last day of my freedom, I fell from the sky,” she said. “I couldn’t walk… They captured me just like a dying bird.”

She showed no emotion as she spoke.

“They used a saw to cut my wings off. I lost a lot of blood, but never my consciousness. I wanted to be weak and fade, but my mind kept me going. I couldn’t shut it off. I had the strangest thoughts. Irrelevant, empty, fleeting little thoughts.”

Camille B. looked at me to check if I was paying attention. Maybe she wanted to see if I understood her… if I was the right audience for what she needed to say.

“They kept me in a cage for three years. They asked me questions. They brought in a translator. A priest. A monk in a blue suit. But I said nothing. After a while, I wasn’t sure if I could even speak any more.”

This was the first time I noticed she had a tiny speech impediment. Just the way she swallowed her vowels, almost imperceptibly. I wondered if this was due to her three years of silence. As if her throat rejected the notion of talking.

“When they finally let me go, all I had left were two shiny scars.”

I wanted to see her back, but I was afraid to ask. Maybe the scars have healed since, it’s been long enough.

“They are still there,” she said, as if seeing through my thoughts. “Though not as shiny any more.”

A customer called from the front. An older woman in dark rimmed glasses. She wanted another drink and some fresh dumplings.

Camille B. took one last glance at the evening market before she walked away.