The brilliant red apple gleamed against the green of the soft, welcoming leaves. I smiled calmly and sighed, releasing the last of my worries and fears. The scent of the orchard spilled into my veins and cleared my head. The faint rustling of the leaves rose like the waves of the ocean within me. It felt almost tangible, like an object I could hold and shape to my desires. In front of me sat a young girl, basking in the sun below the tree. The long shining hair tied in ribbons below her ears bounced playfully in the wind. On her lap she held a perfect little pile of red delicious apples. She radiated triumph with a simple look of happiness on her face. I glanced upward knowing what I would see scaling the narrow and fragile branches of the apple tree. Like an agile monkey the little boy leapt from limb to limb, grabbing apple after apple and carefully lowering himself to drop them in the lap of the laughing children surrounding the tree. I could almost picture the tree stretching a branch or shifting its weight to guard the little boy from a dangerous jump or miscalculated step. The orchard knew us better than we knew ourselves. It was a part of each moment, each breath and each memory. The little girl with the ribbons knew this- just like I know this, and my days in the orchard have long come to an end.
A call came from the end of the orchard and the little girl sighed the sigh of a much older woman. As the sun began to bend the shadows of the twisted branches, the girl gathered her days catch in the little basket at the base of the tree. Many of the other children began to gather their baskets, too, but an air of reluctance tangled with the sweet smell of the orchard. I remembered this time for myself, remembering the feeling of loss that a few hours away from our haven would stir within us. For an outsider this might seem strange and irrational, our connection to the land and this place. But in my heart I could still conjure the very smells and the very sight of it because it had become part of me.
The call came again and the girl smoothed her hair, straightened her dress and grabbed her basket. The wise young children exchanged knowing looks as if to comfort each other as they stepped out of the orchard, rejoining their parents and leaving the world where time stands still. The parents are ordinary, pragmatic and simple. I wonder if they remember the things the orchard once stirred within them; if they could still hear the soothing whistle of the breeze weaving through the branches whispering secrets into our ears; if they could remember the delight of watching a bud slowly grow from a green pod to the brilliant, rounded apples waiting to be gathered. But I know they cannot. It happens to the best of us one day or another. We simply wake up to find a house busy with excitement and a day packed with priorities and tasks, and soon enough we forget to listen for that low hum of nature or to stop and admire the birds- till an apple becomes an apple and an orchard is nothing but an orchard. I know that, everybody knows that. And though we know this to be true somehow we still forget to listen for the hum.
The parents scold the little girl with the ribbons for being so long in the orchard. I follow mechanically but my thoughts are far from here. They float somewhere among the leaves and the fruit, climbing up and up with the little monkey boy, swinging here and jumping there. Drifting among my friends and their ancient and protective limbs, I feel myself being swiftly pulled away from this place that I long for. In the distance I begin to hear the sure whooshing sound of morning. It grows louder and louder as it nears and I grow desperate trying to escape it- but it is inescapable.
Suddenly I am awake in my bed. I take a moment to realize that the whooshing I dreamt of is the early morning traffic seeping through my window. I press my eyes together wishing that I could will myself back to sleep- back to the orchard and back to my world. My aching limbs remind me of things I would rather forget. I look over at the chair next to my hospital bed where my daughter has fallen asleep.
She no longer wears ribbons in her hair.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Livy's Letter
The dark clouds on the distant horizon seemed strangely reflective in the unexpectedly cold wind. This unsettled summer day was dimmed by the cloud of my laboured thoughts. Above the sky showed no sign of future tumult- but many things in life can deceive us: childhood, hopes and dreams, traffic lights… moments that you think will last forever. My hand moved up my neck. I felt the scars that marked my once smooth face. I remembered the flash of blinding lights and the wail of a high speed, bullet-fast collision and the crushing feeling of darkness as it whispered its sweet lullaby over my misshaped body. Once I had hopes and a vision for my future. But these days all of those dreams felt like a burnt pile of ashes slowly being blown away by the wind. I had nothing to fill the few short hours I could spend sleeping and when I did dream I woke up drenched in sweat, covered head to toe in lingering terror. My subconscious would bring up a real of screeching tires, beeping hospital monitors, shouts and the desperate look on my pale, drawn face. Even after all I could do, I still couldn’t block out those flashbacks. They hurt me everyday.
I rolled my wheelchair slowly towards the bus stop- the one near the gymnastic complex and the small rundown coffee shop that I used to visited everyday. I averted my eyes from both of these places. The bus was just pulling up and I spun my wheels faster to make it there on time. I wished for the millionth time that day that there was another way to make this better. It made my heart ache to consider what awaited me where I was headed. But I hadn’t visited her in the last month since my recovery- if it could be called that. My upper body was functioning now, but people never really heal from these kinds of things. How can they?
Samuel Levitt, the bus driver’s elderly assistant, helped me unto the ramp and into the bus. He stooped down with a hand on the rail supporting his frail body, somehow maintaining his dignity. The irony of the moment struck me like a slap in the face: the old taking care of the young. I shut my eyelids tightly, ordering the building pressure behind my eyes to stop. But over and over all I could see was that look of burning pity on his wrinkled face. When I was younger and neither my father nor my mother could drive me anywhere on my days off of school, I used to sit there with Old Sam and talk while the bus drove down the streets of the city I loved so much. Now all I could see was the emptiness. Places I had once visited. People I didn’t know anymore. I saw her too- everywhere I went. I would turn the corner of a street and imagine that I caught a glimpse of some untamed curly hair bouncing under an Angels ball cap. When I went shopping I would picture buying things for her. Some ice-cream on a warm sunny days; a jumper for her ninth birthday- she had always loved the way they looked on other girls; a little puppy wagging its tail in a pet shop window.
I looked out at the city flashing past, praying for some little piece of comfort or peace or confidence to come to me at that moment. I would never need it more than at this time. The bus stopped, and though I hadn’t been here in months I remembered every detail of the house that stood across the street. And suddenly I was moving. At first I thought my prayer had been answered and I had been allowed some courage to face this moment. But it was just Sam pushing me towards the exit in his kind and helpful way. Inside, my head was screaming at me, begging me to turn back now. I knew I couldn’t do that- I owed her this much. I would do this for Liv- not for myself.
A few summers back my sister’s husband- before they divorced- had built a ramp up their steps when Livy made friends with a young neighbourhood boy who needed a wheelchair. I never thought I would ever need it. I rang the doorbell and waited, feeling my heart pound, as if it were trying to escape at any cost. I heard footsteps. I knew them well and just hearing the familiar sounds of my sister so near made my eyes sting. She hadn’t visited me. Jimmy had, but he’d said that she wasn’t ready to face all of it yet.
She opened the door and something in her eyes told me that she was being careful not to show her emotions. Even though we are four years apart, I know her like the back of my hand and I know what that look means. She bit her lip, she clasped her hands and she didn’t look at me. We had always trusted each other but now there was a wall between us. I wanted it torn down, and she wanted its protection from any more pain. When you’re you blame yourself for the accident that killed your sister’s youngest daughter there isn’t much you can say… So I didn’t say anything. Instead I reached to take something from the side pocket of my jacket.
I handed her the envelope- the one Liv had made me promise to keep safe till the perfect time. I now knew that there would never be another perfect moment in our lives without Livy around- and present was the only time I could count on. You never know how long you have with the people you love. I learned that the hard way.
“She made me promise not to give this to you till your birthday,” my voice cracked, “It’s a little late now... and I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. Each crystal drop left a streak of shame and guilt on my anguished face.
My sister looked at me once and I saw a tear of her own escape under her dark lashes. She took the envelope. It was a little crumpled, but when she opened it a little pink paper stuck out. She lifted it and began to read:
Dear Mama,
I love you. You are my best friend.
You make me happy and you always
protect me. Happy Birthday! I love you from here to
the moon and back. Forever and ever.
Livy
My sister’s sobs shook her shoulders and I wheeled myself forward to reach her. She fell on her knees and put her head in my lap, all her reserve falling apart. Each tear we cried together, missing the little girl that had blessed both our lives in so many ways. One thing was for sure though: she would never be completely gone. Livy lived on everywhere. She was in little things like her favourite flavour of ice-cream and in bouncing pigtails. But most importantly she lived on in the many ways that she had changed us for the better.
I rolled my wheelchair slowly towards the bus stop- the one near the gymnastic complex and the small rundown coffee shop that I used to visited everyday. I averted my eyes from both of these places. The bus was just pulling up and I spun my wheels faster to make it there on time. I wished for the millionth time that day that there was another way to make this better. It made my heart ache to consider what awaited me where I was headed. But I hadn’t visited her in the last month since my recovery- if it could be called that. My upper body was functioning now, but people never really heal from these kinds of things. How can they?
Samuel Levitt, the bus driver’s elderly assistant, helped me unto the ramp and into the bus. He stooped down with a hand on the rail supporting his frail body, somehow maintaining his dignity. The irony of the moment struck me like a slap in the face: the old taking care of the young. I shut my eyelids tightly, ordering the building pressure behind my eyes to stop. But over and over all I could see was that look of burning pity on his wrinkled face. When I was younger and neither my father nor my mother could drive me anywhere on my days off of school, I used to sit there with Old Sam and talk while the bus drove down the streets of the city I loved so much. Now all I could see was the emptiness. Places I had once visited. People I didn’t know anymore. I saw her too- everywhere I went. I would turn the corner of a street and imagine that I caught a glimpse of some untamed curly hair bouncing under an Angels ball cap. When I went shopping I would picture buying things for her. Some ice-cream on a warm sunny days; a jumper for her ninth birthday- she had always loved the way they looked on other girls; a little puppy wagging its tail in a pet shop window.
I looked out at the city flashing past, praying for some little piece of comfort or peace or confidence to come to me at that moment. I would never need it more than at this time. The bus stopped, and though I hadn’t been here in months I remembered every detail of the house that stood across the street. And suddenly I was moving. At first I thought my prayer had been answered and I had been allowed some courage to face this moment. But it was just Sam pushing me towards the exit in his kind and helpful way. Inside, my head was screaming at me, begging me to turn back now. I knew I couldn’t do that- I owed her this much. I would do this for Liv- not for myself.
A few summers back my sister’s husband- before they divorced- had built a ramp up their steps when Livy made friends with a young neighbourhood boy who needed a wheelchair. I never thought I would ever need it. I rang the doorbell and waited, feeling my heart pound, as if it were trying to escape at any cost. I heard footsteps. I knew them well and just hearing the familiar sounds of my sister so near made my eyes sting. She hadn’t visited me. Jimmy had, but he’d said that she wasn’t ready to face all of it yet.
She opened the door and something in her eyes told me that she was being careful not to show her emotions. Even though we are four years apart, I know her like the back of my hand and I know what that look means. She bit her lip, she clasped her hands and she didn’t look at me. We had always trusted each other but now there was a wall between us. I wanted it torn down, and she wanted its protection from any more pain. When you’re you blame yourself for the accident that killed your sister’s youngest daughter there isn’t much you can say… So I didn’t say anything. Instead I reached to take something from the side pocket of my jacket.
I handed her the envelope- the one Liv had made me promise to keep safe till the perfect time. I now knew that there would never be another perfect moment in our lives without Livy around- and present was the only time I could count on. You never know how long you have with the people you love. I learned that the hard way.
“She made me promise not to give this to you till your birthday,” my voice cracked, “It’s a little late now... and I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. Each crystal drop left a streak of shame and guilt on my anguished face.
My sister looked at me once and I saw a tear of her own escape under her dark lashes. She took the envelope. It was a little crumpled, but when she opened it a little pink paper stuck out. She lifted it and began to read:
Dear Mama,
I love you. You are my best friend.
You make me happy and you always
protect me. Happy Birthday! I love you from here to
the moon and back. Forever and ever.
Livy
My sister’s sobs shook her shoulders and I wheeled myself forward to reach her. She fell on her knees and put her head in my lap, all her reserve falling apart. Each tear we cried together, missing the little girl that had blessed both our lives in so many ways. One thing was for sure though: she would never be completely gone. Livy lived on everywhere. She was in little things like her favourite flavour of ice-cream and in bouncing pigtails. But most importantly she lived on in the many ways that she had changed us for the better.
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