Il wara2a

She lay, crinkled and weathered and light, on the top of the heap.
Her new home: the dirt mound...
...guarded by two twisted olive trees, taller than assumed, for juthoorhom originated in cracked seeds centuries below the surface.

Il wara2a folded-in her right corner, an origami wind-breaker to guard the diagonal from the gust of hawa that blew furiously over and through the hilltop; the sister-breeze was the one who brought her here, and she didn't want the brother to take her away.

She bore the marks of a lack of direction, tattooed with pencil and scarred with eraser.
But it wasn't her fault.

She was born crisp and clean and proud, bleached with boundlessness and starched with purpose.
She was il wara2a, a canvas for creation.

And the olive trees smiled at her, lovingly and somberly, for they knew asilha and they teared at her fate. And they vowed to protect her, so long as she remained on the earth at the base of their trunks.

The sun beamed her brightest, and il wara2a caught her glow within the folds that held the holes the opened to folds below.
And the sun penetrated and bleached her white whiter with golden hue and heat.

But it hurt. It hurt as a salt-rub against raw pulp, where roots were still stringy and organic and moist with earth, and not yet bonded and jaded and dry.

The hawa blew and the trees bowed and shaded il wara2a from the harsh sun.

And she sighed paper-tossing-across-earth with relief. But forgetting is a blessing bestowed upon humans, not upon trees and their progeny, so the scent of the singe of new freckles would remain with her forever.

3adee--she was accustomed to abuse.

Il wara2a stretched out her corners with voracity, and "chehhhhhh"ed forcefully to undo what had been done to her by man and time and sun.

And she ripped her own right corner off, now forever undone,
and without an origami sheath to shield her from impending winds.

With sullen glance she peaked out through her ink blots and saw the majestic and mature olive trees ranks above. She stretched a bit more, but gentler now, as a still-sleeping newborn cradled in the arms of her mother--not aware of her motion but proceeding because of organic necessity.

And she stared at the familiar strangers, creating a two-tree canopy of leaf and zaytoon above.
She felt protected, and stripped of abuse.
She felt rejuvenated and relaxed and calmly confused.

The right shajara bowed her head to catch a leaf between the rock and 2aneenat cola that lay next to il wara2a. She pulled back with might, plucking out a piece of her life...

...so that the wara2a would know hers.

The hawa downshifted to naseem, and tip-tapped the leaf to il wara2a, so she could embrace her kin, her past.

The wara2a wrinkled with remembrance--she knew 3ala tool the patterns of veins, and could trace them even before they tickled her top sheet.

Then, she relaxed and embraced her long-lost ancestor. She folded her remaining three corners and her right stub onto herself, and held the leaf in--a hug between missing relatives who had just found each other.

And it began to rain.

The shitta dropped in dollops, and hole-punched the reinforced wara2a, still holding her leaf. The harder the pound, the stronger the bond.

She held on as she began to bleed blue ink, and slowly and chemically began to change state.

drip, drip, drip, drop

The four corners had dissolved into her center, and the leaf was now her new spine.

Il wara2a withstood and felt and could not tanish any bead of water that beat her deeper into the mound of dirt.

Il shajar did their bests to interlock their leaves, layering a canopy above il wara2a, but the leaves of the zaytoon trees are slender and could not provide enough coverage.

They watched as il wara2a dissolved into shreds of awra2 that melted away exposing the leaf-spine. The shreds dissolved into confetti that freckled the dirt wet-white...

...until finally, il wara2a, il awra2, by the beat of the rain, had returned to asilha, and drained centuries down the dirt, riding the juthoor, to the cracked seed...

...filling each half with herself and mache-ing the parts back to whole. Il wara2a was in the earth at the base of their trunks--and there she'd remain, protected.

The rain stopped, the sun glistened off the beads on the zaytoon leaves, and the hawa blew the shajar dry...

...and blew another sheet off the spiral daftar and onto the dirt mound.