Seasonal Ink

Mr Jones was a man in uniform
Though his family did not see this form
He thought he’d seen life
But never had he noticed his wife
Who makes his bed and pours his coffee
And for their children she was a referee

So Mr Jones relives his days in terror:
The ‘20s crash and ‘38 bombing
The ‘60s protestors incarcerating
His values and teachings, he trusted the war
But the missing eight and a half minutes dropped him further

 So what did you miss there Jones?
Your children do not comprehend LBJ and Watergate
And frankly your wife doesn’t hate
But bringing work home wasn’t very smart
You are not the core
She’s not your whore

  Mr Jones your sons are not men of uniform
They planned reform
But the way the story goes
History always wins

Dear Jack,

It is almost perfect.

The fireplace is blazing brightly, the warmth could be felt all the way in the dining room, where the you could smell the turkey already. I just had the rug changed yesterday morning; Max loved the new smell and snuggled on it all day. Dad came over to help with the Christmas tree about two weeks ago. Billy loved the whole decorating process, insisting on putting everything sparkly up the tree. He and dad had a really good time. Sometimes dad would stop over to help with the cleaning, but I was managing well without him. Of course, Billy was great help. He actually tried to stop dad from moving the heavy boxes around, and one time dad said, “William Adams, are you doubting my ability as a grandfather to carry a box?” and Billy replied, “No, sir, but as the man of the house I should be the one doing all this carrying!” He reminds me so much of you.

It’s been snowing since Wednesday. Sometimes it would get so cold in the morning I couldn’t get up ‘til half past eight. My feet had been aching, but nothing a little massage couldn’t cure – and that, is nothing I cannot manage. I went to the doctor last week, and he said the baby is very healthy. I will be due in March, Jack. Dad said we should name him after you. How does that sound, sweetheart? John Junior Adams. When you come home your second son will be waiting for you.

Please come home Jack. We’re all waiting for you. It snowed so heavily yesterday that the snow completely covered the grounds. Obviously I couldn’t shovel, but Mrs Smith was very kind to send her husband over in the evening. Later that night Max rushed out of the house chasing birds again, and Billy just ran after him without thinking twice. He slipped on black ice and knocked his head, I thought my heart had stopped right then because he did not utter a sound. You know how Billy is – his lips would tremble if you so much as raise your voice, and when he cut his knee on the pavement last summer he cried for hours. I could not risk running on the ice myself, I could only grab the porch post for support and scream for help. Mr Smith shot through his gate and helped Billy up.

What would I have done if Billy had injured himself? What if no one heard my scream? What if I was in the kitchen and didn’t realise what was going on?

Billy told me that he didn’t cry because he thought of you. He said that that hit in the head hurt a lot, but it cannot hurt any more than what it feels to have someone deliberately hit you or even shoot you. I don’t know where he gets these ideas, Jack, he’s only seven. Seven is too young to be a man. You are the man of the house. You belong here, in this house built with your own hands. We all pray for you every night.
I hope you receive our Christmas parcels. Dad will be coming at eight, and so are your parents. I insisted that they come at dinner time so that I could have some time alone with you. My thoughts to you, sweetheart.

May God bless you.

Love,
Anna.

invisible words laid out like a blueprint,
ready for the eyes and ears for acknowledgment
those who see but do not comprehend
formulas just like the ones in your textbooks
but the obstacles are just like the tests.
courage, and determinism, and patience
if you do not possess then you are lost
and it’s incredible how much
is being kept unpublished

He led me to the top of the world
I was trembling with fear
Heights are not my friend dear,
My shiverings they could hear
And consume me they would.

Consume you they would
How crude
What hoots
But why let them take you?

Darling you’re on top of the world
You can win them for sure
Step forward dear
You’ll trump.

You’re already on top.

It’s your game now.

Mary took her son for a stroll
today is a day for lessons
from  mother nature they take

These rocks are the wall of our world
the sand our playground
the grey skies behave as they like
perhaps they’d be blue if you behave

These houses where we shelter and rest
these cars take us to the end of the world
today you can’t see over the skyscrapers
perhaps tomorrow you’d fly over them

But what is it we’re learning from nature today mama?
Mary stopped in her tracks wondering what she missed
we’re learning colours son.

Grey rocks and brown sand
white houses and red cars
Mary turned the world over to see what was missing
she was sure there was something from her childhood
that her son was not to see

(Note: Written in 2005 as part of a role-play character)

They were here two days ago. They were here because I was hiding. They were here and my mum was crying. They were here and my Jenny was scared. They were here but I was hiding.

I’m eighteen, I’m a man, I’m American. I’m eighteen, I’m a son, I’m a brother. The country needs me, my family needs me.

I’m eighteen and I’m here hiding. They are here again.

My mum is sick. My mum is very sick, she can hardly get out of bed. Her legs hurt at night and on rainy days. She has problems breathing. She needs somebody to feed her. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. She needs somebody to give her her medication. Five different tablets a time, three times a day. She needs somebody to sing to her at night when she can’t breath and her chest is hurting. My mum can hardly see, she can hardly see me and Jenny.

Jenny is just six, oh my darling Jenny. Jenny can bake the softest and creamiest bread you have ever tasted. Jenny can read a whole storybook by herself, Jenny reads to mum and I after dinner. Everyday. Jenny needs somebody to teach her words and numbers. Jenny needs somebody to check her homework and makes sure she finishes them. Jenny needs somebody to protect her and make sure nobody at school bullies her. Jenny can’t even plait her own hair, because her brother does it for her every morning.

And Mary, how can I leave Mary. Mary so sweet and tender, Mary so graceful and kind. But Mary doesn’t know how I feel about her. Mary thinks I am her best friend, Mary feels like a sister when she’s with me. Mary who would sit under the stars with me when I am lonely, Mary who would listen to my sad story.

Who is going to work and put food on the table once I am gone? They will starve to death. I cannot go away.

They are here again, and they are shouting at my mother. They are here again, and little Jenny is crying. And then I hear her footsteps. They are fast, they are coming here. She knocks on the door and cries.

“Brother, brother, please come out, brother,” she cries. She bangs her fists on the door hard, and she is sobbing so hard she is hiccuping. “They’re here brother, please go with them.”

I am not going anywhere. I am staying here, I am going to take care of you Jenny.

“They say they are going to send you to jail if you don’t go with them,” she says again. “Mama is very sad. Mama wants to see you.”

Mum can’t talk. Mum can’t tell me to go join the army, because she can’t talk. Mum can’t say I love you, son, I will pray for you, go on and protect our country. Mum can’t talk.

“Open the door, open the door!” Jenny is shrieking. At last, she has stop banging. She is silent, and then she says very softly, “You’re a coward, brother. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

My Jenny calls me a coward. My Jenny doesn’t want to see her brother anymore. I got up and I reach for the doorknob. I see her standing there, she is looking at the ground.

“Jenny, come here,” I whisper. She does not move. I take her into my arms and close the door again. “Do you really want me to go?”

And then she is crying again, her tears would not stop spilling down her cheeks. “Please go with those people, brother. I have heard from my friends that they will not be kind to dodgers. My teacher said that soldiers are good men, brother, soldiers are brave and selfless. They protect the country. Why don’t you want to protect the country?”

Why don’t I?

“How can I leave you behind, Jenny?” I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to show Jenny my tears. I kiss her hair and look into her eyes. How can I leave my sister here with my mother, while I get myself killed in the battlefield? Jenny doesn’t answer me. Instead, I hear another knock on the door.

“I told Mary you were here,” Jenny averts her eyes. I open the door and Mary wraps her arms around me.

“Jack, Jack,” she repeats over and over again. “Jack.”

She takes Jenny’s hands and she looks at me with those lovely brown eyes of hers. “I can take care of Jenny. I can take care of your mother. Don’t dodge the draft, Jack. You will come back safely, you will. Go with them. They will never let you go if you don’t go with them.”

“I can’t, Mary,” the tears are coming. The tears are rolling down my cheeks, I can’t stop them. “They are going to take me away and I may never come back. My mum, Jenny -”

“Trust me, Jack,” I can see the tears in her eyes. ” I will take care of them until you return. Do this for the country - do this for us.”

Why are they telling me to go? Why must I go? I can’t go, no, I can’t -

The door bang wide open and two men in uniform came in. Mary left the door open. They take me by the shoulders and twist my arms backwards.

“Jack Anderson,” says one of them, pushing me out. “Take the train heading to Boston.”

“No - let me go! I’m not going anywhere!” I try to free myself, but they are too strong. I turn around and I see Mary and Jenny both crying. I don’t want to leave.

“You move one more time and I’ll blow the lights outta ya,” says the other man. “Be a good boy there.”

“Jenny! Jenny! Mary!” I call after them, not expecting anything to happen. They are taking me. I have not say goodbye to mum yet. “JENNY! MARY!”

Jenny. Mary. Mum. Goodbye.

Among the sea of red robes was one who was in such a hurry to remove hers. The red flock grinned from ear to ear, hands on their mortar boards to keep them from falling, moving here and there to say their goodbyes and capture the moment on cameras. And yet there she stood, right in the middle, her blond hair reflecting the blinding sun, the neckline of her shirt lopsided from the removal of her robes. There was a vacant look in her eyes - and then a girl approached her. Her eyelids hung low and her steps were small but she made it all the same. Her hair was dark and her eyes were full of life, she was ready to grab on whatever chances that came her way for the future. Very slowly, hands almost shaking, she extended a pen and a notebook.

“I’d like to have your number. We can keep in touch.”

The blond girl sighed, but she took the pen and wrote down her number anyway. The brunette was full of glee.

“Thank you. This is my number, I hope you’ll remember me.”

And then she ran away.

Fifteen years down the road, the blond girl could vaguely remember the girl who had asked for her number. She had forgotten the look in her eyes and how the robes hung from her shoulders.  There was a lot of things that she had forgotten. She went to the store room and searched for the old brown bag she had used for college, and rummaged it very carefully for the piece paper torn out from a little notebook.

She frowned. The paper was there. But the number on the paper… It was hers.

The long table at the corner of the restaurant was full. There were loud chattering going on, the spreading of gossip and perhaps some hints of business deals for the future. Everyone was carefully ignoring the couple seated at the centre – a beautiful lady, staring intently at the red linen tablecloth, and the host, doing his best to comfort his date by giving her the warmest hugs: It’s alright, I’m here for you.

            She was beautiful, but people rarely liked Amanda. She was the kind of person that gave off an unwelcoming aura the moment she entered a room. Her face was smooth and long, forehead protruding, nose sharp. She had large almond eyes that gave very strong glares, and a never smiling big mouth that warded off friendships. Her height was average but the way she held herself, it was as if she towered over everyone – it was often seen as arrogance.

            For all the cold exterior, Amanda was highly sought-after in her career. Her agent once said that she was never going to make it into the industry as she was only able to take angry, one-dimensional pictures. Today the said agent thanks her stars everyday for not letting go of this gem. It seemed that not being able to take perky commercial pictures was not a problem, because Amanda’s brooding demeanor attracted the couture world.

            How can one be so cold, and yet find success in a vicious, survival of the fittest world? Amanda’s answers include bulimia, constant depression and self-inflicted injuries. People saw her as proud, but she was insecure. Modeling didn’t make her happy, but it made her feel productive. It was a reason to keep going, to look forward to next week, because she was needed. She hated to disappoint.

            When does the madness stop? When will people completely stop what they are doing, sit down and rest, tear up their editorials and apply for a job at the bank?

            Life was simple with Jake. She didn’t have to please. She didn’t have to paint her face and put on a look. She could eat anything she liked and there will not be questioning stares. He knew what she looked like in the mornings when her hair was disheveled and her breath was reeking last night’s dinner. She could be wearing his Manchester United jersey and not having to check her posture all the time and Jake still found her beautiful.

            Even more important than their comfort and passion was that she could be honest with him. He never judged when she purged. He sat with her all through the nights when she couldn’t understand the world around her anymore. He kept away all the pins and scissors and knives, and cut her nails for her when they grow enough to be a danger. He was silent when she needed to think, gentle with his words when she needed answers. He was the pillar that she needed to hold on to, to lean on until the madness stopped spinning – and even more assuring was the fact that he was always going to be there for her.

            Nothing in this world is certain enough to employ the word ‘always’. The long table at the corner of the restaurant was full, and Amanda’s cup was half empty. Her breathing was constricted, because perhaps if she was to sigh the tears would spill. She had to bite her lip and dig her nails into her palms, because perhaps if she was to relax she might just hold him and never let go. Her mouth was clammed shut and she never looked at him, because perhaps if she was to let her guard down she would revert back to old Amanda that Jake had worked so hard to take away from her.

            It was the last supper. In eight hours Jake will be on a plane, to an institute where he will learn the ways of the world which will, hopefully, gain him a respectable career. Sure, nothing could be certain, but Jake believed in hope, and he had to make the decision he made because it was the only way he could earn enough to house and feed the woman who needed him: I’m taking you away from the madness, Mandy, I’m going to take you far away from the madness.

Once upon a time, there was a house on a prairie of green, green grass. The house was built of timber and on the front hangs a wind-chime, and on windy days you can hear the music of the wind playing throughout the field. The fences guard a very beautiful garden, where herbs and vegetables grow, and when the season is right the children will help to harvest them. Before the house was a wide stretch of pristine river, sacred to the family and neighbours. Inside, there was a fireplace; routine story-telling and music playing take place by the hearth.

A large family lived in the house on the prairie. The father was a carpenter; all the furniture in the house was built by him; it was no surprise to find a random note of love under the leg of a chair or in the joint of a shelf where one wood met another. The mother woke up earlier than any members of the family to whip up whole-wheat pancakes and fill the jar with fresh milk, and prepare cornmeal cakes for teatime. The older children rose early enough to have breakfast with their father, and left for school noisily with their rambunctious behaviour. When the house is still and quiet the mother would wake her youngest daughter up, help her dress and serve her breakfast.

There was much to do around the house. Rid the shelves of dust, keeping the floor clean, cleaning the dishes and washing the clothes, drying sheets on a warm day and purging weeds from the garden. Just when the mother could take a breather, the children will be back from school and she will have to prepare dinner: oatmeal was a family favourite, sometimes sprinkled with cinnamon, sometimes garnished with herbs.

Evenings were relatively quiet. The young ones would have tire out by now. At times they would occupy the piano and the harp and the flute and the goatskin drum; a chorus of melodious notes filled the house - lilt sopranos and strong baritones. Most of the time, though, they gathered by the hearth and listened to tales of enchantments and sorceries, of princes and damsels in distress, of beasts and fairy folks. The mother and father were both skilled storytellers. The days ended with the children being tucked in bed, one by one, and wishes of good nights and blessings were said.

My heart fell. I could hear the exasperation in his voice. I thought he was going to close the door and leave, but he slipped onto the bed behind me and held me tight. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. More tears spilled, but something inside me warmed up. He wasn’t angry… I’m sorry. It’s my fault. Forgive me? Come on baby, turn over. I shifted to face him, hands still holding on to the blanket to cover my sobs. I didn’t dare to look at him, but I knew this turmoil was over. He kissed my hair and patted my back lightly. No more tears, heart… I’m sorry I hurt you. I should never have said such words, I don’t know what came over me. You’re the dearest thing that I have, and I have hurt you. And I held him. I held him as close as I could, bodies locked tight; I would not have let go if the roof was to fell on us at that moment. I held him with all my heart and soul and the tears were reduced to gasps of breath.

 It was the first time he’d stop my tears in a long - oh, very long - time. It was the first time he’d wrap his arms around me when the tears came.

And then he sang. It was a familar tune, his favourite tune, but the words were new and it came from deep within him - all the emotions that was playing in his heart, and all the things that I wanted to hear. Gradually, the gasping stopped and I could breath normally. It felt so much like old times that I whispered a silent prayer, calling on whatever forces it was that governed our universe to make this moment last.

I closed my eyes, my hand in his, my head fitting in the hollow of his shoulder perfectly.

We could stay like this for a little while more. Let us stay like this for a little while more.