Seasonal Ink

On the mat of grass it was ours to own. Waking up in the morning I knew that maybe, just maybe, today we would be able to go to the apple tree. Every morning that would be the first thing that comes to my mind, and sometimes I get so excited my dry lips would crack into a tiny smile. Brushing my teeth, I might be making mental notes of what to say, or plan what snacks to bring with me, or wonder if he would like me to wear my pink tank top that he said made me look like a princess. His princess. Sometimes I would just lay the thoughts aside and let things be, and maybe just a tiny bit, wonder if he would give me a surprise.

We normally talk on the phone in the afternoon when he has his lunch breaks. I would pop a suggestion about the apple tree if I was too impatient. The question normally pops up during the evenings. “Would you like to go to the tree today?” The answer was always the same.

At the tree was where we liked to camp out at night, bringing torch lights and breads in a little bag. On nights like this we told stories to each other, just like the campfire nights we had at school. At times it would be something really ridiculous, at times it would be a childhood story we wanted to share. Most of the time it was stories of the suffering unspoken people from all over the world. He liked hearing stories from my work, I would keep going on like a train and he wouldn’t stop me except to pose questions. When these stories are told, sometimes tears would fall, sometimes laughter and hope filled the air, sometimes uncontrolled anger over the ignorance of people that have caused the sufferings of others are released. It always ended in hugs and soft coos of how confident he was that my work would could change the world. Sometimes when words failed us, the handy mobile phone will be whipped out and all we would do is lie on our backs and listen to the soft blaring of music from the phone, fingers lacing together.

If we chose to visit the apple tree in the afternoon, sometimes Bongo would come with us. Bongo likes to watch the children playing in the park, sometimes unable to contain his excitement and begin barking at them. I would stare at my sweetheart next to me - I always do so, and he never quite understood why I liked to do that. Afternoons would be card trick time. He brings a pack of cards with him wherever he goes, just so that he could show me tricks at any time of the day. Sometimes we will have our backs rested on the tree, him reading the newspapers, and me, with a good thick book. Dessert was always a pleasant surprise. I would bring him a batch of fresh homemade cookies, or he would take-away a sinful, decadent chocolate cake from the bakery near his office.

Today was just like any other ordinary day. Except that today, neither of us mentioned about the apple tree. Perhaps the number on the calendar has a significant meaning - it does after all says that it has been exactly ten months since he first told me how much he wanted to be a part of my life. On the mat of grass it was ours to own. I put on the plainest T-shirt I own and pulled on a pair of shabby old shorts even though the result of my excessive consuming of chocolates are evident. I left my hair the messy way it was and slipped into my slippers. Feeling exceptionally comfortable, I stepped out into the cold after-rain weather and walked to the park. I took my time. It was serene to walk on my own today. This time I did not bring anything else with me except for a waterproof picnic cloth; the greatest gift today would be to be able to sit with him under the apple tree. I hope he did not buy me anything. It would be perfect if he too felt that all we needed was each other, and not material goods. But even more so I hope he would come. I gave the good old tree a pat, and pressed the glossy cloth onto the damp grass and sat down.

And then I waited.

A long stretch of wooden floor lay before me, all polished and expensive. Right in front, a little steeper below the stage is a semi-circle where the orchestra performs their magic, where the notes jump right off the instruments and make wonders maybe even more powerful than the acts themselves. Deep and magnificent, the orchestra. Rows and rows of red velvet chairs lined up in the dark, if I looked hard enough I could see the old acquaintances in their usual seats, always there when the tickets were affordable, and always the last to leave so that a praise could be delivered.

I sat with my legs stretched wide open, both hands on the floor to support my weight. The shimmers on the giant chandelier caught my eyes. I never did like the chandelier. When I just started, I always stared at the chandelier. It helped with the nervousness. Lionel was never an easy boss to please, but he never gave up on me. Good for him. My habit of looking up at the chandelier always did irk him badly, because it meant that I had forgotten my lines again. He would scream profanities at me and I would throw them right back, but every time we start again I would do better.

It is the seventh week now. The last time the troupe would be performing here. The last time I will be able to sweep my feet across this floor, to spin and tap in front of the lively audiences, to recite my lines and play the character I have come to know so well now. Right here at this theatre where I was born.

Heavy footsteps, and a yellow mist. I shielded my eyes from the blinding spotlight.

“Warn me before you touch that switch, won’t you? I did bring my shades with me,” I groaned.

“Sorry but I’m afraid that if I left you here any longer your ass would stick to the stage forever, and the management will sue me because they won’t be able to use the stage anymore,” Lionel said before laughing very contently at his own joke. This time I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was a lame one.

“You just interrupted a very important bonding session, jackass.” I extended a hand for the cigarette he had in his mouth, but he did not offer.

“I don’t know why you’re worrying so much. I know you’ll return here. You know that too, son,” he turned away. “It’s time to move on now, but when it’s right, you’ll know when to come home.”

Move on and return? Is that even possible? To see the world and achieve my dreams, and come back to my mother, to my very birthplace where blood had shed and lives were taken. Would I be able to do that?

And if I can’t, would Mother be able to forgive me?