Benjamin DuBow
I saw the Taj Mahal before it saw the Sun and noticed, in the fragile light of dawn, that it was crying.
“Why, O Taj, do you cry,” I asked.
But the Taj did not answer, for it is made of stone.
Rather than ask again, I closed my eyes and listened. Beneath the stomping feet and chirping birds, I could hear it: a slow and somber song, just a hum away from silence. Like the song that all things sing—only different. I hummed along, adding my own tune to the mix. We stayed like that for a while, the Taj and I, when all of a sudden it opened one eye and stared into my soul.
“You sing the song of silence softly, Little One. How did you learn this tune?”
“I listened, O Taj, to the sound beneath the sounds.”
It rumbled in response; I held my silent hum. And then it spoke once more.
“I cry because I love the Moon,” it said, just as the Sun started peeking out the sky.
I paused.
“But it’s only a day till you see her again,” I then answered.
It sighed.
“Half an eternity is still an eternity. And, I must confess, that is not the true problem.”
It paused. I held my breath. It blinked and then continued: “She and I, we both are made
of stone, you see. And yet while she is always on the move, always changing, here I am, perpetually at rest.”
“Was not it always so?” I asked.
“No. Before my bones were broken from the earth, I moved in concert with the Moon—slowly, yes, but still I moved. In increments. But now, from myself divided, I cannot so much as scratch my ear.”
“Do you have an ear in need of scratching?” I asked.
“No,” it said, “but still.”