The following is a short story (a memoir) I wrote for the local newspaper. I sent it in and I should be hearing back from them by this weekend. If they like it, they’ll publish it in the paper and I’ll get paid (a small sum). I think it turned out pretty good so I thought I’d share.
THE MINARET
My parents took me to the mosque every weekend when I was younger. Unlike most kids my age who felt these trips were a burden, I enjoyed them. I believed I was royalty, and I claimed as my throne the minaret of our mosque. The staircase that led up to the minaret was always wet. The walls and ceiling were constantly dripping due to lack of maintenance. It was impossible not to get my shoes wet, and that was okay because I enjoyed letting the dirty water soak into my socks as I climbed the stairs.
At the first step, I would slam my foot down barbarically and send a wailing echo throughout the tower. Quickly, I would jump to the next step in order to overlap the echoes. Progressing this way up the staircase, I made my own musical from a crying tower, squeaking socks, and wailing steps.
Upon reaching the top, I would fling open the large door and step outside. The floor was small and circular, guarded by a low railing that barely passed above my knees. Overhead, a small dome shaded me from the sun so I would not be bothered by the presence of the light. This was my minaret, the place I came each time my parents thought I was inside praying. Hurriedly, I kicked off my shoes and peeled away my socks. I would fling my legs over the railing and dangle my bare feet over the edge. I sat like this for a long time observing the world from above. My favorite things to watch were the trees. Backs bent low, they would rise and fall with the wind. Their branches pathetically bobbed up and down for my sympathy as if they were beggars. I liked to think they were putting on an act for me. Numerous times I was so engaged in the thought of those trees that I would forget about all the tiny people below.
There were dozens of them gazing up at me from in their miniature cars, pointing their fingers, shaking their heads, sometimes even stopping to yell at me. I did not care. I was above the trees and well above the puny lives that whizzed by in their little cars. On that minaret, I was the ultimate power. This is how I spent my time as miserable believers chose to stay inside and weep to their Lord.
Years later, the ascent up the tower is still familiar. I recognize the howling orchestra, although it is not as dramatic. The door that once led to my freedom does not hold its majestic appearance anymore. I open it with little effort, but cannot move further than the doorway. I cannot say whether those trees would still prostrate or if those people would still stare up at me the way they used to, because fear of a greater being has crept in silently over the past few years and taken over this place. But I can say that the light that shines is still the same as it was many years ago, the same light that never fails to rise every morning and fall each night.
