Dancing Figments

Now it's time for me to sit back and let my memories, which by now are nothing but a bunch of deconstructed dancing figments, waltz me through my mind's many hidden chambers.

Five-foot-five inches tall, Amouni was a sharp dresser. He slicked back his thick straight black hair with Brilliantine's pomade and didn't leave a strand out of place. He dressed in the latest fashion three-piece suits, white shirts, and exquisite silk ties. His latest fashion shoes were polished every day, and he wore the latest fashion eyeglasses. Amouni's attributes didn't stop there. He was a chess and backgammon champion and practiced fencing, and above all, he was a poet and funny as hell. In short, he was our coolest uncle.

I sit here and recall all the people, all the places ancient and new, civil or pastoral, friendly or foreboding. I sit here in the darkness of my own room and remember that once upon a time we lived in a golden kingdom, with sour cherry trees, snakes, turtles, a chicken coop with a rooster in charge, and the wolf-tearing guard dog who guarded Mash Hussein's sheep. A kingdom filled with the scent of cucumbers and purple basil mixed with the smell of manure and clover.