Seasonal Ink

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.

I had the most peculiar feeling last night. Amidst the blazing laser beams and the earth-shaking techno beats all I wanted to do was to write. Curious indeed. There was something about about the flashing beams that swept the room, blue, white, green, blue, white, green. Something about how the couch I was sitting on vibrated to the beat of the music. Bad, bad music. What was the DJ doing here? He looked even younger than me. He should be in bed now, school starts early tomorrow. Our table was in this little cocoon of glitter and confetti, lined with ugly printed couches. If I shift my eyes a little to the left I could catch a glimpse of my girlfriends making out. Making out like they had just discovered the passion one could feel in the meeting of lips. Like the first time a tongue ever tasted the sweetness of an uncertain venture. I was certain that if they had drank just a little more of that whiskey they would have stripped each other right there and then with no hesitation. Now why was I missing all that fun? I pushed my thoughts away, surprised at how much I wanted to join in their tongue action. It was their moment, none of my business to interrupt.

In front of me was a big middle-aged man. A big man with a title to his name. Just outside our little cocoon, never out of sight, was his bodyguard. The girl who had been chatting with me just a moment ago was now in his arms, fast asleep. She was just a year or two older than me, pursuing a degree in Psychology. Perky and dramatic, which she explained was because of the drama classes she used to take. I thought it was a case of Coke overdose. As I watched the two, a lady with bobbed hair joined them. She placed her arms carefully on his lap and leaned in to whisper something into his ear. His free arm moved down her waist and his fingers traced the outline of her panty through her tight dress. She giggled, and the drama girl stirred. The bobbed hair girl caught my eyes, and I hurriedly look away.

To my right was a bunch of guys pretending to be humping each other and laughing as though it was the funniest joke in the whole wide world. Recently I’ve discovered that the world really isn’t that wide, and that perhaps people really are related through six degrees of connection. One of them saw me and came over. I quickly took out my phone and pretended to be sending a message.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

He was the fifth person to ask me if I was okay.

“Yeap.”

“Not enjoying?”

“It’s okay.”

“Your friends there, wow.”

I looked at the direction he was nodding at and quickly turned away. I can’t join in the action!

“Yeah, wow.”

“You’re really quiet, aren’t you?”

Not knowing what to reply, I gave him a smile. What do people expect as answer to that question, anyway? If you know that someone is “really quiet” you should excuse yourself and retreat as quickly as possible, not pose another question and prolong the conversation. He began saying something but this time the music changed and more noisy thumping beats were hitting the ceiling; the DJ felt that it was entirely appropriate to yell at the top of his lungs into the microphone for no reason at all. I gave him another smile instead of asking him to repeat himself. I wondered if he thought my braces was cute. Perhaps taking the cue, he nodded to himself and stared into space.

After an unproductive five minutes passed, a half-drunk classmate came over and held his glass up high. “FOR ETERNITY!” Nobody answered. Maybe half-drunk was an understatement. He took my wrist and yank me up. “Come on! FOR ETERNITY!” I took my glass of coke and pretended it was spiked. “For eternity, of course,” I mumbled as I gulped down the drink. Satisfied, he gave a rather loud belch and retreated into the group of humping guys. I plopped back onto the couch and crossed my arms.

A repeat of observing surroundings, and a repeat torrent of thoughts. For eternity, indeed. As I sat there that night I realised how when you decide to stay stagnant for a few hours you could create a routine by not doing anything at all. As I waited for the hours to pass it felt like eternity. As I watched the people around me in a flood of debauchery partying I wondered if I had somehow lost myself in them.

Where was I? What was I doing there?

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.

I could already feel the sweat forming on my back, and it wasn’t just because of the burning spotlights. I dried my wet palms and strutted onto the stage. They started to cheer. They clapped and they whistled and they cheered, I could see some of them waving their hands at me but I couldn’t tell who they were.

Funny. I don’t even know these people.

“Evening,” I smiled, and the crowd settled down. I felt powerful. I took a deep breath and continued. “This had been a fantastic night, and I am honoured to be here tonight to present the award that was specially created for this one person who is incredibly talented.”

All of a sudden the silence was overwhelming. It was as if everyone stopped breathing. I felt like laughing, except that it was really inappropriate to do so. I wished to disappear.

“This is for the woman who is so proud, that she would not reveal any weaknesses that she might possess to the public eye. A perfectionist who produced countless music that have become so much a part of us. Someone who had retreated into silence, recluse, for reasons nobody could fathom.

“Ladies and gentleman, this is the person whose heart was so broken that it could not be healed, not entirely. This is the person who had been hurt by the very thing that had made her whole – music. Tonight, by presenting this award, I will have broken her trust in me to hide the truth from you. She wishes nobody to know that she is sick, that she is unable to make music anymore – but my mother, Serena Torres, deserves this honour.”

I could hear little gasps now, eyes widened, brows knitted into frowns. I had expected more cheers. My hands were shaking now; the bright lights were hurting my eyes.

“I hope, that next week, on the Christmas day, when you are sitting by your fireplace to the warmth of the fire, Lovely Christmas will accompany your night. That when you are dancing in your living room with your first child, it will be to Deft Steps. That when you propose to your sweetheart in that trendy restaurant, My Heart In Your Hands will guide you. That when you passed your driving test and run the wheels on the highway for the first time, you will be blasting High Road High Love.

“I hope that you will think of her when her songs play, and remember this woman who has made our lives so much brighter with the magic of her songs.”

I turned to my right and nodded at the runner. He wheeled my mother out – my mother with her hair brushed perfectly in place, with her face made up in the most beautiful colours and her body clothed in the most magnificent dress. My mother would never want to be seen in anything less than perfect.

The audience stood up and cheered for my mother, the most respectable figure in the industry.

But the most respectable figure in the industry did not know who they were cheering for, or what she was doing on the stage of the most prestigious music award show. The most respectable figure in the industry did not know who she was.

Tears started to blur my eyes, but I had to hold it in. I cannot cry.

“The Golden Lifetime Achievement Award,” I said, kneeling down beside the wheelchair, “is for Serena Torres.”

I kissed my mother on the cheek and pressed the little trophy into her arms.

Her secret was out tonight, and if she was lucid, I hope that she would forgive me.

In her mind it was a time of gunshots and fear. There was forbidden love and hidden desires. For twenty five years the same thing plays in her mind: urging and begging the fiery headed sweetheart of hers to stay, and it ended with her giving up on him and letting him go. For twenty five years she wished she could go back to that scene, for time to turn its hands backwards and bring her back to then - because now she was sure of what she had wanted, and had she known then, she would never had let dear Harris go.

 She was a nurse, and he was in the army. Frienship turned into admiration, and it blossomed into something so wonderful they were sure it was a love that would last for a lifetime. When it was announced that volunteers were needed for an especially dangerous mission, he was adamant to attend the tryouts. If succesful, the soldiers are allowed to retire from the army and be sent home straightaway without having to wait for the war. He talked about a home and a family, and it wasn’t his home and family - he was talking about their home and family. To start anew when he returns. She only heard gibberish that wouldn’t register in her brain.

She had her misgivings about the mission. Again and again she tried to persuade him to forget it, but he reasoned that sooner or later he had to be sent to the frontlines anyway. He had nothing to lose before, but now he was eager to start a new life with the love of his life. He was going to do it, and he was going to return alive.

The mission was a success - but Harris’ plane did not make it back.

Twenty five years into the future saw his lady bedridden, living only in the belief that she had found a way to turn back time and convince Harris to stay. Every day for twenty five years she had been convincing Harris to stay, to no avail. The nurse who was assigned to care for her could only wonder about her patient’s pain.

It was something about watering the foxglove that he gave me made July seem nearer. Father said that would be when the war would end, and our men would return their rightful soil. The bell-like flowers have not bloomed yet. The foxglove was set by a little drawer near the window. It was the window where Liam would sit by to read, because it was the brightest spot in the house. If the grass was dry and the sun was just warm, we would lie on the grass and his story would be accompanied by the music of chirping birds and rustling leaves.

I remember when I was six and thought myself a man - only that I didn’t know I cannot change my gender by will, and that being a girl wasn’t so bad after all. Liam would take me hiking up the lower cliffs (because we went up a tall one once with Liam’s older brother and father shouted at poor Liam all night) and to the lake near his house, and he could recite the names of all the flowers that was blooming under the sky.

 ”Those are cottongrass,” he would say, pointing at the dots of fluffy white cotton balls at the peat bog. I prepared to run to them, they looked like clouds on the ground - so pure and pretty. Liam grabbed my hand and pulled me back. “Don’t be stupid, it’s dangerous.”

“Why?” I said defiantly, crossing my arms. “They look like cotton but they don’t look like grass. Why are they called cottongrass? Why can’t I go near them? I would race you there!”

He held back a grimace and walked away from the bog. “Cottongrass grow on deep peat bogs, you should avoid them when you see them unless you want to sink into the ground and drown to death.”

I was about to ask how is it possible to sink into the ground and then drown to death, but he stopped walking and plucked a white-petalled flower with a bulging yellow centre from the ground. “This is an ox-eye daisy. Your mother used to love them very much.”

My heart felt heavy and I avoided his eyes. Liam never knew this, but I hated it when he talked about mother. Mother died the day she brought me into this world, and because father never wanted to talk about her, the only way I got to learn about her was through Liam. It was angered me that Liam wasn’t even her son, and yet he knew her like she had nurtured and loved him his whole life.

“That’s a nice name,” I said absently, trying to avert the topic from my mother. “I’m going to name my son Ox-Eyed Daisy.”

In my six-year-old mind that sounded like a very mature conversation, but Liam dropped the flower and started laughing hysterically. I felt insulted.

“You can’t name your son Ox-Eyed Daisy. You could name you daughter Daisy, but your son is going to hate you if you call him Ox-Eyed Daisy.”

“Of course I can. Father says that’s how the Indians name each other. They have names like One Eye and Arrowhead and Buffalo Toes…”

“They sure are a funny lot of people then.” Liam was finally regaining his breath and decided that it was a bad idea to laugh, because I was already on the verge of tears. “There’s no hurry to give your son a name. You can wait until you have a husband and a son to decide what his name is.”

“I sure am not going to have you as a husband,” I fumed. “I’m going to name my son Ox-Eyed Daisy.”

I chuckled as I recalled that silly bit of memory. I am now twelve and no longer think it’s a necessity to raise my fists with the boys to have my opinions heard. I no longer went down to the lake anymore; seeing the vast land of flowers brought memories of Liam telling me the names of every flowers that grew there, the story behind their names, which one was edible and which one was poisonous. Memories like that bring tears to my eyes, and I cannot allow tears as Liam consider tears as a sign of weakness. Until he comes back, I am going to stay strong. For the day Liam told me that he was going to war and that he may not ever be back, that he was going to risk his life for the people and that I may not ever hear his voice anymore - I cried myself silly, I begged him not to go and I smashed all his potted flowers. Liam never said anything but left me a pot of foxglove the next day, and I never saw him again.

That was a year ago, and Liam was sixteen, not quite a man yet but believed that he was needed in the army to save our land. In the foxglove was a tiny band made of something that looked like grass, something that I did not know the name of. I had never seen leaves like that before. There was an apple beside the pot. I knew then, when I slipped the band into my finger, that my destiny was sealed with his.