I Want to Find Comfort By The Gate

In the twilight hours before dawn, Kiswa lay in bed, her small frame trembling under the weight of an impending journey. The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards. Outside, the night was calm—too calm, Kiswa thought. The world seemed to hold its breath, as if sensing her unease. She clutched her favorite teddy bear, its fur worn smooth from years of affection. It smelled faintly of her mother’s perfume, a mixture of jasmine and sandalwood, but tonight it brought little comfort.

Kiswa was a child of small rituals and familiar comforts. Her days unfolded in the gentle rhythm of routine: the clink of her father’s teacup in the morning, her mother’s melodic humming as she braided Kiswa’s hair, the warmth of home-cooked meals shared around the table. Her world was a tapestry of safety, each thread woven with love and care. The thought of stepping outside this cocoon, of facing something unknown, was unthinkable.

The first light of day seeped through the curtains, painting the walls in muted gold. Her mother’s footsteps approached, soft and deliberate, like the whisper of a breeze. She entered the room, her sari wrapped snugly around her, her presence as steadying as the earth itself. Sitting at the edge of Kiswa’s bed, she gently tucked a stray curl behind her daughter’s ear. Her hand lingered for a moment, a silent reassurance.

“It’s time to get ready, my love,” she said, her voice calm but laced with a tenderness that only a mother could muster. She placed a neatly ironed dress on the bed, the fabric pale blue with tiny embroidered flowers. Kiswa stared at it, her throat tightening. To her, the dress was no longer just a garment; it was the embodiment of the day ahead, a day she had dreaded for weeks.

“What if I’m not ready?” Kiswa’s voice was barely audible, her words tumbling out in a whisper.

Her mother smiled, the kind of smile that hid its own fears. “You don’t have to be ready, sweetheart. You just have to take the first step. The rest will come.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Kiswa slipped out of bed. Her mother helped her dress, the silence between them filled with unspoken emotions. As she tied Kiswa’s hair into pigtails, she hummed softly, a tune that had accompanied Kiswa’s childhood. It was both a comfort and a farewell, a bridge between the world Kiswa knew and the one she was about to enter.

The walk to school felt surreal. The streets, so familiar and ordinary, seemed transformed in the morning light. Vendors were setting up their stalls, their voices blending with the distant rumble of traffic. Kiswa’s hand clung tightly to her mother’s, her grip a silent plea. Her mother said little, her presence steady and unwavering.

When they reached the school gate, Kiswa stopped. The gate was adorned with cheerful decorations, balloons swaying in the breeze, but to Kiswa, it looked more like the entrance to a fortress. Her heart pounded, each beat echoing in her ears.

Her mother knelt before her, holding both of Kiswa’s hands in her own. “You’re going to have a wonderful time,” she said, her voice firm yet gentle. “And I’ll be right here when it’s time to go home. I promise.”

Kiswa nodded, though her chest felt heavy. She released her mother’s hand reluctantly, her steps hesitant as she walked through the gate. She turned once, catching sight of her mother’s wave, her silhouette framed by the morning light. Kiswa held onto that image, letting it anchor her as she ventured forward.

Inside, the world seemed louder, brighter, more chaotic. The chatter of children filled the air, their laughter bouncing off the walls. Kiswa felt out of place, a lone leaf caught in a whirlwind. The classroom was a kaleidoscope of colors, the walls adorned with posters and drawings. A woman with kind eyes and a warm smile approached her.

“You must be Kiswa,” said Miss Daisy, her voice soft but assured. She guided Kiswa to a desk by the window, her presence calming. Kiswa sat down, her hands gripping the edge of the desk as if it could steady her.

The hours that followed were a blur. The lessons, the games, the stories—all seemed distant, as though Kiswa were watching them unfold from behind a veil. She missed her mother’s voice, the scent of home, the certainty of familiar surroundings. At one point, her eyes welled up, and she fought the urge to cry.

It was then that a voice interrupted her thoughts. “I like your dress,” said a girl sitting beside her. She had bright eyes and a gap-toothed smile. “It’s really pretty.”

Kiswa looked at her, startled. “Thank you,” she managed to whisper.

“I’m Lily,” the girl said, extending a hand. Her gesture was simple, yet it carried a warmth that eased some of the tightness in Kiswa’s chest. Hesitantly, Kiswa shook her hand.

Throughout the day, Lily stayed close, guiding Kiswa through the unfamiliar routines. She introduced her to other children, shared her crayons during art class, and even offered half of her sandwich during lunch. Bit by bit, the walls around Kiswa’s heart began to crumble. By the time the final bell rang, she found herself smiling, a genuine smile that reached her eyes.

As Kiswa walked out of the school gate, she spotted her mother waiting under a banyan tree. The sight of her brought a rush of relief and joy. Kiswa ran into her arms, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder.

“How was it?” her mother asked, stroking her hair.

Kiswa pulled back, her eyes shining. “It wasn’t so bad,” she said softly. “I made a friend.”

That evening, as Kiswa lay in bed, she held her teddy bear close. The fear that had gripped her in the morning felt like a distant memory. She thought of Lily’s smile, of Miss Daisy’s kind words, of the laughter she had shared with her new friends. The world no longer seemed so daunting.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered to her teddy bear, “we’ll do it all again.”

And as she drifted off to sleep, the promise of new beginnings filled her dreams. The journey she had feared so deeply had turned out to be the first step toward something wonderful. Kiswa had discovered that courage wasn’t the absence of fear, but the willingness to take a step forward despite it. In the gentle embrace of a new day, she had found her own strength, her own voice, her own story.