Seasonal Ink

There was a couple who had a healthy, normal life. Life became a routine that they settled in comfortably, one complementing the other to make each whole. The husband earned a living and came home each night, except on occasions where he had to travel to town to barter a good business. The wife cleans the house, sweeps the floor, washes his clothes and cooks his meals every day and night without fail.

One day the wife received a letter; a cousin from the neighbouring village had fallen ill. She needed to visit him, he was kind to her when she needed help. She packed her bags and traveled alone, for her husband had a business to deal with.

Alone, the husband did not do well. The house was in a mess and clothes sprawled all over the room. Spilled juice left stains on the shirt that he had no way of removing. Things that his wife did with seemingly no effort at all were impossible tasks for him.

One day, not long after the wife’s departure, the widow who lived next door knocked on his door for some extra flour. He had no idea where the flour was placed, and would not have recognised it if it was in front of him. The widow allowed herself in and found the sad state the house was in.

She offered to help. Every day she came by to wipe the windows and dust the china. She pressed his clothes wrinkle-free and got rid of the juice stains in one wash. She re-arranged the pantry and had dinner with him every night.

She was almost as capable as the wife was in household chores, maybe even better.

Weeks passed and the wife did not return. She sent letters saying that she would have to stay a little longer because her cousin’s condition was not improving. The husband continued to wait, and the widow continued to visit everyday doing everything that his wife had done for him so immaculately before.

In time she began to hold conversations with him that he used to have with his wife: talks about traveling beyond the borders, about moving to the city, about owning a bigger enterprise than this little village trade. She began to massage his shoulders when he felt stressed, and then his legs when he was tired. It felt better than his wife’s fingers. They began to take walks in the park and play chess together, just like he did with his wife in their leisure time.

Yet the letters came, one after another. A month. Two months. Three. A year passed.

But it wasn’t time for the last letter yet, the one that would say that she would be coming home and they would finally be able to return to their routine together.

Ah, but the husband had been keeping up with the routine. He kept it up with the widow. In fact, they made new routines together. They would sing and dance - something the wife never did in the past. They would exchange word puzzles and see who would be the first to complete them - the husband’s favourite; word puzzles never interested the wife. Apparently the widow was fantastic at them.

In the end, the wife came home, and

One day I saw someone who looked like you. Long hair. Sad eyes. Looking forlorn as always.

You stepped out. I realised it was you. No suits. Just loose T-shirt and jeans. Is it just me or is that an extra piercing on your ear? Your hair is black again. It took some time, but you gave a small smile.

I thought I could burst into tears. I always thought we’d have this dramatic reunion where I will burst into tears and run into your arms and King will be there laughing and being idiotic.

I just stood there. I didn’t want to enter your car. I could see him, the bodyguard whom I can’t even remember his name. I looked around. People were nonchalant, chatting, buying ice-creams, waving goodbyes. Did they know that someone special was there? Did they know that something out of the ordinary is happening?

Why are you here?

Picking you up.

I have a ride home.

I can send you.

Okay.

I said hi to your driver, but I did not remember his name. I pretended I did.

I remember that car.

But I don’t remember a lot of things. I don’t remember where we went. I don’t remember what we did. I don’t remember what you said. Even those times at the stone benches have faded. I tried to recall something, anything, but I don’t remember. I realised that I probably had forgotten how you looked like too.

I remember us sitting on stone benches. We never spoke. I remember watching you swim. You never told me why. I remember being held back in class the day you left, and I wanted badly to forget it…

I forgot. I don’t remember.

When did you come back?

Yesterday.

Why didn’t you call me?

I’m here now.

I want to go home.

Alright.

We missed a few turns, because I didn’t know the way home. But we made it. I didn’t invite you in. I didn’t tell you why I shifted. I didn’t ask what have you been doing, why are you back here. There were no urges, no frustration, no amusement or anger.

The silence. The comfortable silence. It wasn’t the same as before - it wasn’t that we didn’t need to speak. It was that I didn’t want to speak. I had all the questions in my mind, but I didn’t want them answered.

I stayed in the car a bit longer, appreciating the silence. The silence that calmed me. The silence that told me I still belonged.

Goodbye.

Bye.

As I inserted the key into the lock, it dawned on me. I was right all along. And things have changed. Suddenly the weight was lifted. Suddenly I giggled. I heaved a sigh, and I ran to your car. I opened the door. You raised an eyebrow, but I smiled and told you

maybe we should have dinner together. I think you’d like to meet him. Oh, and we can go Lafite too!

In case you have mistaken, I do not produce money.

Ah but you have money. And your accent is getting better, I can understand you better now.

A last grin. Shut of the door. As I laid on my bed I called the familiar number and told my boyfriend about my day.

That day I lost a brother.

Life went on.