Seasonal Ink

                What a sight she was. Hair escaped from her ribbon, flying wild in the wind. From under her thin, beige coat peeked the white, wrinkled nightdress. She looked like she just woke up. The sun rose as the fishermen stood at a distance, not knowing what to do with her.

                She was sprawled on the sand, her shoulders shaking not from the cold but from the ache. Her face depicted so much misery one could only guess what she had lost. Her eyes puffed, fresh tears mixing with dried stains on her cheeks.

                In the sea, sailing away, was a grand ship.

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.

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

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.

If you inflict the sting of a cane on my skin
I will pen the letters that form the ugly words of hate

If you punch the hard knuckles of your fist to my jaws
I will pass the tag down to the ribs of your foe

If you point the mouth of a gun to my head
I will rape the ladies of their honour right before their husbands and fathers and brothers and sons

If you knew all my limits
I will not stop

In my prayers I whisper
with all my might for invincibility

            I am an author. I pen my works meticulously with twists and turns no one could ever guess. I craft my words wittily to create the magical world that my readers never want to leave. I am published and successful, and there is nothing else in the world that I love than to have words flowing off my fingertips with ease.

             I am a feature writer. People often seek for me to write opinion pieces and reviews. I can demand for any topic and any location that I want to write on at all, and I will be shipped off with all-expenses paid.

             I am an editor. I meet everybody in the world and I travel all around the globe. I boss people around to have their work done, and I get to say what they can or cannot do. I manage with perfection and copies fly off the shelf, and the office is a merry wonder.

             I am a linguist. I teach at a renowned university and I am respected by peers and students alike. I inspire and empower my students like no other, and bring forth changes to the leaders of today.

             I am a wildlife conservationist. I work with the cutest and the most dangerous animals to walk on the soil. I may have to travel and get dirty, but nothing pleases me more than to see another life saved.

             I am a lawyer. I am knowledgeable and confident; I am the best of my league. I defend all who is right and justice will be at my side. Evils may manipulate but my integrity will still be intact.

             I am an archeologist. I am educated in world history and I am determined. I dig all around the world for proofs and stories and revelations come with me. When I am eighty rocking on my favourite chair, my grandchildren still come home to listen to the endless stories I have.

             I am a baker. I am not of prestigious award winning background, but humble and locally loved. I have a small and quaint business in town, all run by myself. I am covered in butter, flour and sugar every day, just like the housewife dream I have always had.

             I am a housewife. A hired cleaner does the chores and the cooking is done by the husband, but all the same I shop for the house enthusiastically. No children.

             But most of all I am a friend. A friend to all who said hi and all who walk past. A friend to my family and the people around me. A friend who is there when needed, and when I can’t be there, I am the friend who tries. A friend who is sincere and independent.

Paint my face with the pallete of bright colours
Perhaps a sweet pink on the white cheeks
cherry red on the soft lips
Tie my tresses up, don’t let them get in the way
Dress me up fine for my person.

Put on my facade, fit it tight
No loopholes should be seen.
Glue on my smile, make it sweet
Make sure it stands strong for hours.
Tie my bubbliness in with a ribbon
Hold it in with an armour.

This should be perfect.