We had to listen to the above song and then write in response. So, here's mine. It's random. Enjoy.
This piece is mine and mine alone.
Shadows and Regrets
It is an awfully
strange thing when a person who meant so much suddenly becomes clippings of
moments in your mind. They, as a whole, start to filter from your memory; only
very softly at first, so as to not alarm you. Until, suddenly, you’re trying to
remember the creases around their eyes, or the way their teeth did not align
perfectly, and you find yourself stumped... hollow, terrified that a precious
moment has left you, never to return.
It is like
that with her. Five years have passed and all those hours that were spent
together managed to snake away from me. During those days I would tell my brain
to etch certain moments, so that I may never forget the smells, the sounds, the
tastes of those minutes, but alas, my mind betrayed me; betrayed her and her
memory. I only remember fleeting moments of foolishness now; moments that were
so quaint, so miniscule they make my chest ache.
Lying in my pops’
cornfield, I had sat for nearly half an hour tickling her bare arm with a piece
of corn, whilst pollen and dust whirled in the sunlight. I don’t remember what
she wore that day. Nor do I remember the minutes that surrounded that moment,
but I remember something so visibly, and it was how the little hairs on her
arms rose with goose bumps as I tickled her golden skin. To think, for years we
were company to each other and one of my clearest memories of her are her goose
bumps.
Memories are
like ghosts. They haunt but do not alleviate suffering. People say ‘at least
you have your memories’ but memories are transient. Memories stay with us for a
short time only, and then they become a haze. After the haze they morph in to
snippets, and then tiny details.
Her
favourite perfume, she’d said, was anything that smelt like lilies. She loved
lilies and my Ma had always shaken her head at the thought of it, telling her
it would bring bad luck. She’d shrug her shoulders, and tuck her hands beneath
her bottom. Something she always did when she was trying to hold her tongue. I
appreciated that about her.
The wedding
had been small, some of my side, some of hers. We’d kissed like it was the
first time, embarrassed and fidgety. Her parents were there, so were mine, and
so was her grandma; back then, you didn’t want your folks seeing you kiss. I
don’t remember the kiss as a picture, no, just the sensation and the smell.
Kissing her was like standing in a garden of lilies. The church applauded and
we left both our families and our hometown.
She rarely
cried. She had stamina. That first Christmas was a shambles. I’d slaughtered a
chicken, a small one that we’d raised, and she burnt it. Burnt it all to hell.
How she cried. First it was a trickle and then it came in gushes like she’d
been holding in those tears for years. She’d sat on a stool in our kitchen,
folded double, her forehead on her knees as she cried. I’d laughed and thrown
it out back but she cried and cried. Our first Christmas we ate half burnt
roasted potatoes and carrots that had been boiled to mush. The stuffing was
undercooked but I ate it and asked for more... looking back, it's probably the
best thing I have ever eaten.
A book for
Christmas and birthdays. Every year. That’s all she ever wanted, and every year
I would buy a book and a bunch of flowers. She’d pick a flower from the bouquet
and lay it like a bookmark between the sheets of paper. It would dry there. The
shelf now is a graveyard of her reading, and a graveyard of every bunch of
flowers that were ever presented with a book.
One child
was given and then taken away. She did not cry until the babe was buried.
Another child was given and it flourished and grew and she became something
else entirely. She was no longer mine only, but shared. Naturally she insisted
that this beautiful baby be called Lilly and I could not imagine a name best
suited.
We would
occasionally find Lilly playing in the cornfields, and as she grew we’d
occasionally find her being chased by her best friend. Lilly grew and
eventually married her best friend. It seemed that she was a girl who cherished
tradition.
If you were
to take my memories, of all those years from me right now, you’d compile a book
no longer than a novella; a small little book that details goose bumps, burnt
chicken, books and lilies. People talk of shadows
and regrets but regrets are also memories that will one day be forgotten.
Her last
days were spent in a white room, with white sheets and white light. A vase of
white lilies sat beside her. I read to her for hours... and she would smile at
me for hours. Her wrinkled fingers occasionally touched my wrist to show
appreciation. She couldn’t speak in the end, but she knew me. When death took
her, she held so tight that he took me too; and so my body waits here like a
shadow in this world, surrounded by her books and dead pressed flowers to pass.
Lilly visits
regularly and we sit awkwardly not wanting to speak of her. I ask about her
day, she asks about mine. We want to talk of her, we’re desperate to, but no
words can come without the grief. Lilly kisses me goodnight and leaves me,
promising to visit in the next couple of days.
The
cornfields wave at me every morning, and every morning I wave back. I’m sure they laugh at my balding head and stooped posture. I wake and sleep hoping to one
day tickle her arm again with a piece of corn, and see those goose bumps rise.
When death
comes I know that he’ll bring her with him too. My Olivia. We will kiss each
other with embarrassment and leave hand in hand; but for now I wait watching those golden cornfields.
