If Love Is Blind

two

THE DAY CLARET WAS HIRED by the Khan family, she was in seventh heaven. She told me she had felt as though she was finally getting chosen for her true self, not just out of pity. I think that somehow, a sense of belonging had engulfed her entirely. You see, Claret had no family to claim her own. Her father passed away when she was just a baby and her mother abandoned her at the age of six. She heartlessly told her to stay put, "I will be coming back soon". Needless to say, she never did. 

Kids did not let her play with them, for their parents had whispered to them between closed doors that she had the cooties. Claret's heart did not break too harshly, though. She had other pastimes. She indulged in reading, mostly novellas and history text books. Her iron-willed desire to drink up the words in a paper page was so fierce that she would walk up to my library every single day, pick up a title, sit down anywhere in the shop and sip on the text in her hands. When I was closing, she would leave. 

This went on for years on end. 

I was intrigued by this behavior, because then I knew that she was more than just the town beggar. No, she knew she had potential and wanted to make the best out of it, such a sweet, little creature. I remember the first day I made her acquaintance as if it were yesterday.

She walked in, and I was about to tell her to go away, when I acknowledged that she was not here to ask for food or money. Her small, begrimed fingers delicately traced the titles before her longwinded eyes, and seemingly everything caught her attention. She walked all the way to the kids' section before picking up something incredibly random and walking to the cushions near the puzzle rug. Mind you, I was seeing a ten year old pick up "The Cat in the Hat", struggling to get past the cover of the book. I then learned that Claret Hale knew nothing about reading. 

But she did not, for a single second, put the book down. She would look at the page and write things on the back of her hand every now and then. I did not understand; I could not possibly comprehend, I was still a blind man to the realities of the world. Her entire interest was within those pages and nothing else. So much so, that the day passed her by and I had to close the shop. 

I remember that I had said, "Alright kid, I'm closing up."

She seemed startled by the sudden words and nodded in agreement, very politely so. After she put the book back she held my stare before exiting the shop, and she said, "Good night, Sir."

She showed up the next day, and the day after that, and every other day that followed. 

I was, perplexed. I had never seen a child interested in reading before. I had never seen someone so eager to read pages she did not understand. It was awe-inducing. After a week or so of seeing her struggle with the same "Cat in the Hat", I approached her. Something about her small voice and her unkempt clothes, the chaotic hair and the tempestuous feeling she brought within herself called me in. She reminded me of my wife; always so intrigued with the unusual, patient with everything but her looks, a delicate but rowdy snow storm about to collide with soft breeze, interesting like the seconds it takes for lighting to roll into thunder. Something out of this world; so earthly, yet so heavenly. 

I had said, "Do you need help, young lady?"

She seemed afraid, as if I had caught her doing something she was not supposed to be doing. I thought she was just afraid; now that I know her and I look back I think she was studying my eyes to guess what I was going to say next. 

She then started to say, "I'm just - ", but was cut short when she realized she was not reading because she could not read. 

A small warm feeling crawled and tweaked at the very center of my heart. Perhaps I intimidated her, I will never know, but small tears started falling off her eyes. They traced and cleaned the skin of her cheeks and puddled on her lap, and I could only stare and wonder how something so delicate could exist in the world. At that moment she was almost made of glass.