The late afternoon sunlight drifts lazily through the leaves, wafting meandering beams across garden beds over-blooming with summer flowers. The golden air flickers with diamonds of flittering insects and dancing pollen. Light presses against the eyelids of a young girl. She sways on an enveloping hammock that curls around her as she curls around herself. The sun presses more firmly, and she opens her eyes, lost for a moment as if in a dream.
The setting sun and scent of fresh cooking in the air remind her of time and place. She unfurls herself, gingerly swinging her legs to brush the grass with her toes. She slips off the hammock, bare feet sinking into the warm soil. She steps forward with purpose. She turns the door handle with her elbow, hands full of fresh flowers and herbs, using her hip to push the back door open inwards. The old wooden door creaks softly in welcome, hinges well oiled despite their advancing age. A woman stands in the kitchen, back to the back door, stirring the scent of home and comfort with a knobbled wooden spoon in a large ceramic pot. "Put the flowers in the vase on the dining table, and bring the herbs. Dinner’s almost ready." Her voice is a hug, soothing and warm. A salve to wash away the troubles of the day. Food sitting warm in her belly, she snuggles under a handmade quilt, a mosaic of earthen brown, yellows and oranges. The mattress has moulded over years to the shape of her body, always a perfect fit. The woman sits on the edge of the bed, eyes filled with and exuding love as she reaches up to tuck the young girl in. She lifts a large tome off from beside her, flipping to a page marked with many hands and many readings. The young girl knows this story by heart, and is sure her mother does too, but the book is part of the nighttime ritual; the leather smell, the crinkling sound of pages turning, and beautiful illustrations that fill its cover and margins. As her mother reads, she drifts off to sleep. “I had that dream again, Bella.” Her voice sounds tired, defeated. Poorly suppressing a yawn. She stands in the kitchen, blowing softly on a cup of tea. "Feeling homesick, Jessie?" Bella slides in to give a playful punch on the shoulder. Jessie shakes her head, but quickly loses enthusiasm. She takes a sip. It tastes bitter and dry. "Maybe. It's hard to describe." "Try me." "I want to be here, I want to be traveling with you, exploring ancient ruins and diving into picturesque waterfalls." Her hands wave in an extension of her expression, dangerously close to spilling, now stutter and falter, to clasping against the mug for warmth. "But my body feels like it's not where it's meant to be. There's an emptiness pulling me to do what it wants. What the dreams want. To go home." "Sounds like you're homesick to me. When were you last this long away from home?" "Not since I was a toddler with a comfort blanket. I felt sick at school camp after a couple of days, so mum came to pick me up early. I've never been away more than 4 days. It's been over a week here. Maybe I'm just not cut out for travel." Bella holds out both hands. "Whoa there homegirl, we didn't come all this way to bail a week in. We've got months before the semester starts! This is the trip of a lifetime!" She slumps back against the counter. "I know. I don't want to ruin this for you. Sorry for being such a debbie downer." They laze on the deck of a small yacht, surrounded by shimmering turquoise water of the adriatic sea, crystal clear water lapping against the hull. In the distance a centuries old castle stands watch against sharp rocky cliffs of the shoreline. It should be beautiful, but to Jessie the colour is drained from the world like curtains too long in too harsh sunlight with a coat of dust from decades discarded in an attic. The air is cold and biting, the water uninviting - harbouring unseen dangers beneath. She’s felt sick all day, fighting the urge to retch, fighting the urge to flee to the nearest airport. Out of the corner of her eye she catches a glimpse of colour. Flowers? She turns to look and there is nothing. More ocean. "That's just the right amount of sun, care to join me?" Her mother says. She jolts up, but it's just Bella standing up readying to dive in for another swim. A tinge of concern crosses her face seeing Jessie's surprise. "You enjoy it, I'll stay here," Jessie says. "Suit yourself!" Bella smiles before launching herself off the deck. Jessie draws back from the few droplets that splash onto the deck. She turns to head inside the cabin, hands finding a familiar curved copper handle to push the thick wooden door inwards. Inside is a wooden entryway, expanding out to a modest living room with a bouquet of flowers arranged in the centre of the dining table. Home. She rushes back out onto the deck, slamming the door - now sleek modern plastic with silver sliding handle. She reaches her head over the side and heaving as nausea overwhelms her. Nothing comes up, but each time she feels the void grow inside. The airport is sterile and empty, despite teeming with people. All rushing to wait impatiently in lines to race to claim uncomfortable seats to sit for hours at their gate. She walks in a daze, ushered around by the movement of crowds, gazing emptily at stores trying to sell things nobody needs at prices nobody wants to pay. The ambient nose around her is drowned, as if heard from under water. Dull, directionless. She left Bella at the hotel. Made her promise to enjoy the holiday for the both of them, take loads of pictures. Bells wasn't happy, but couldn't afford to cut the holiday short if she'd wanted to. The pull she felt grows stronger. It brings her to her gate, bids her stand and wait. While she follows its whims the nausea and hallucinations seem more distant, easier to ignore. She has tried eating, but everything tastes like nothing and smells rancid at best. The hunger is almost a pleasant change, taking her mind off everything else as the years pass by before the flight attendants call the flight for boarding. The suitcase rattles over the cobblestone path as her ride races off to chase another fare. The front gate is just as she remembered it. Hands slip to unlatch the gate with muscle memory. She knows it has only been 10 days, but it feels like a decade has passed. The vines that form an archway over the path reach fingers towards her in greeting, leaves brush against her as a welcome home. A fresh curl of vine toys playfully with her hair as she walks by. She reaches up to knock at the oak door, the carved raven door-knocker begging to be used, before realising she has a key. The door is unlocked, inching open from the pressure of pressing the key in. Somewhere along the way, the emptiness has gone and the world is back to full colour, smell, taste and sound. The smell invades her nostrils, piercing comfort into the depths of her mind. The same cooking as from her dream. The same meal. She leaves her suitcase in the entryway, kicking her boots off towards the shoe rack, and is dragged forward by the smell, through the living room to the kitchen. Her mother stands at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring a large ceramic pot. She turns, hearing Jessie's footsteps on the wooden floorboards, and a smile fills her face, blooming with love and joy. Jessie can't help but smile back, finding herself wrapping her mother in her arms. "I didn't expect you home for weeks!" Her mother laughs, kissing her on the forehead. "Don't think I'm not thrilled to see you so soon though. I missed you every day." "I missed you too," Jessie replies, voice muffled by her mother's auburn hair. "It was like I couldn't stay away." She pulls back away, glancing over at the simmering pot. "Is it nearly ready? I'm famished." "It's just simmering, waiting until we're ready to eat." The bed is as comfortable as it has always been, the doona as embracing as when she was a child. As she lets her head fall into the pillow she can distantly make out her mother's voice from behind the door, reciting the bedtime story she used to hear as a child. Lulling her into a deep and restoring slumber. She wakes to the growing dawn trickling in through the sheer curtains of the window. Soft light brushes against her face. Feeling revitalised, muscles loose and ready, mind clear and sharp. The memory of her holiday seems a distant dream, not even a true memory. She swings her legs off the bed, toes brushing against the plush fur of the shag pile carpet. She slips off the mattress and strides forward with purpose. She hesitates as her hand clasps the door handle. Something feels off. Everything is perfect. It's all more than real, better than a dream. She can hear her mother in the kitchen, smell the frying onions and crushed garlic. Instead she turns right, to get mothers bedroom. She knows what she is looking for, senses where to find it even if she's never looked for it before. It's in an old chest under the bed. A copper combination lock clicks open to her birthday. The old leather bound tome sits inside. It looks like something from centuries ago - the embellished calligraphy and gold leaf artwork. Yet it can't be. Emblazoned on the cover reads 'Traditional Practice Volume 473: Practical Traditions For Modern Times'. She knows which page to turn to, the book almost falls open to help her. She needs only flip forward a couple of pages. There it is. 'The Ritual Of Anchoring' . She reads on, both entranced and appalled. The words she already knows. The what, the how and the why form answers. Rage overcomes. She storms through the house, a whirlwind of righteous anger, tearing the doona from the bed, tome in the other hand she coalesces in the kitchen doorway. "Esmerelda." She cannot recall the last time she used her mother's name. Her mother stops, turns off the heat. The onions stop sizzling. The wooden spoon clatters against the cedar benchtop. Esmerelda turns, gloom bubbling over her features. Fading to despair as she recognises the book and the blanket. They stand in tense silence, the fire and the darkness. "Well? Nothing to say for yourself?" Tears well in Esmerelda's eyelids. "You'll understand when you have children." Jessie is gone before she finishes her sentence. Esmerelda sits cross-legged, face lit from below by the circle of candles around her. She sings a hymn and the candles flicker and grow in time with her melody. A gust of wind swirls around her and the room is cast into darkness. The building energy dissipates. She walks out to the front gate. The vines are starting to brown, and have pulled back into themselves, starting to wilt. A letter sits alone in the mailbox. She picks it out carefully, and cradles it back into the house. A bone letter opener slides through and across the seal. She fishes out the photo that sits inside. Two people sit posing, a baby held between them. They are smiling, but Esmerelda knows the smile is not for her. She attaches it to the fridge beside 5 others. Jessie featured in each. A year between them. One for each anniversary of her departure. A certainty grows that this is all she will see of her daughter. A photo per year.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Every week on Wednesday there'll be a new short story or poem added to this page.
Lets call it Words on Wednesdays. older
. . Self care - 26.01.2022 (Poem) Perceptions of reality - 2.02.2022 (Poem) Natural impunity - 9.02.2022 (Short Story) Lost in a Labyrinth - 2.03.2022 (Poem) Ministerial Standard - 23.03.2022 (Poem) Dungeons and Dating - 6.04.2022 (Short Story) Better Shared - 20.04.2022 (Poem) Touch to toilet - 27.04.2022 (Poem) Shooting Stars - 4.05.2022 (Short Story) Chop Shop - 18.05.2022 (Poem) Family Ties - 25.05.2022 (Short Story) Age of Consent - 8.06.2022 (Poem) Legacy - 24.08.2022 (Poem) Performative Enjoyment - 7.09.2022 (Poem) Bridge of Dreams - 7.12.2022 (Poem) Faultless - 22.12.2022 (Poem) Disconservative - 11.01.2023 (Poem) Single use - 1.03.2023 (Poem) Donor Cards - 6.04.2023 (Poem) Creative Art Say I - 13.04.2023 (Poem) Home-bound - 5.07.2023 (Short Story) Sand and Sea - 20.07.2023 (Short Story) Luminosity - 15.11.2023 (Short Story) About the AuthorA 33 year old medical intern who plays frisbee and likes long walks over mountains. Archives
November 2023
Categories
All
Add your email below to avoid missing out on some Words. They'll be on this website, but they could be in your inbox.
|