*this*
is emphasis, and >>these<< are thoughts and memories; things not
said aloud.
########
where all the
flowers go
She had been
young once. And looking into a mirror, carefully scrutinizing herself, she could
almost see the beauty of that other face, hidden now behind a mask of wrinkles
and gullies and folds. She'd had long hair, then. Long and
dark and flowing. The sort of hair all the other girls tried to
cultivate and she’d had naturally. Without putting any effort into it at all.
She'd had large, dark eyes, and pale skin. Eyes now dimmed with age, skin now
drooping. Hair gone white and thin and brittle.
Looking at
herself like this, she wondered if anyone else ever saw past the disguise old
age had painted on her. If they ever noticed the grace of the cheekbones now
prominent above sunken cheeks. If they ever saw her sweet, grandmother's smile
and realized that it was the same smile that graced their own young lover's
faces. If they ever looked at her and thought, she must have beautiful when she
was young.
But she was
not that old. Not old enough, really, to look like such a decrepit thing. The
world, she thought, had aged her. Her life, she thought, had sucked the years
out of her the way a child sucked the sweetness out of shaved ice treats,
leaving only the frozen, tasteless water. Sorrow, she thought, tended to do
that to a person.
She’d had a
youth of hiding in air-raid shelters, of running through the streets in her
wooden sandals and singed kimono. Sometimes she could still hear the clop clop
clop of those sandals on the flagstones of the better roads. The more muted
thump of them on hard-packed dirt paths. And above it all, she could hear the
sirens, screaming in their language of shrieks and howls. Run for shelter, run
for shelter, run for shelter, run for...
She had
always run. She knew others who had stopped to take food, to take important
documents. Knew some who had merely shrugged and stayed where they were,
drinking their tea and thinking, if I am meant to die, I will die. But she had
always run, long hair streaming out behind her, someone's child under her arm.
Someone's cousin clinging to her sleeve.
Until
finally, the cities grew too dangerous and the family had fled for the country,
where it was not so cost-effective to drop bombs. Where life
was not quite so cheap, but food even more costly, because the rice paddies had
been burned or left untended by men gone to war.
Her hands
smoothed out her white hair, and she paused to look at them. No sign on them
now, of that other life. Her calluses gone; no need for hard labor any more.
Not with her very capable young tenants looking after her. Moving
her furniture, cleaning for her. The only scratches on her hands now
were those caused by the thorns of flowers, and even those had been neatly
patched, and bandaged. What a fuss today's children made over such small
wounds!! She had worked long days in the fields when she was young, and
returned with numerous cuts ad scrapes worse than these and nothing had ever
come of them!
After all,
the wounds that mattered most were not skin-deep. The wounds that mattered most
cut to the heart.
Family, lost
to the unsatiable appetites of machine guns and fires and bombs. Personal
treasures, traded away for food, to feed the little brother who eventually died
anyway. Friends, who simply disappeared and were never heard from again. And childhood homes, flattened and burnt to the
ground. Bulldozed, years later, until an office building
stood on the plot of land where a younger version of herself had laughed and
plucked persimmons from a twisted old tree. Until a
parking lot stood over the very place where her room had stood, where *she* had
stood, clumsily tying her kimono as a little girl.
Somewhere,
at the bottom of the ocean was her brother, who had promised to bring her
exotic presents from far-away lands. Who would bring for her things only a
brother would think were worth risking life and limb to bring to a sister. Candies, souvenir necklaces from
far away. She would have traded it all and more to have him here, alive,
sitting at the table and complaining as he always had how little food there
was, and really, sister, you're a horrible cook.
Another
brother, forgotten somewhere, maybe tossed into a pit, a trench, the way she had seen done with the charred victims of the
bombings. They had never even received a letter telling them if he was in fact
dead, or missing, or taken prisoner. It was as if he had fallen off the earth.
He'd received a medal for that, for disappearing. She'd have traded that honor
to have him sitting here with her and her other brother, telling her, yes, you
need to learn how to cook better, sister. How else are you going to feed us
growing boys?
She smiled
into the mirror. Smiled at herself, for entertaining such
fancies, and at the ghosts of her brothers, who still lingered in this world,
teasing her, chiding her. Who still told her to cook better, sister, but
never scorned the offerings she set out for them. At least, she liked to think they
did not. After all, what did the living know of the spirit world?
The spirit
world was where her husband was now, long dead in an 'accident'. She would
never know if it had truly been that or something more sinister. She would
never know for what cause he had died. All she knew
was that she had been childless when it had happened. That she had remained
childless forever after.
How lovely
then, that the gods had graced her with grandchildren all the same?
She'd had
many grandchildren. Young, boisterous things, darkened by the world as her own
youth had been. Fighting a war they could never speak of, that the world would
never acknowledge. No one would pat these children on the shoulder and
understand. That was her job. Her job to make sure they worked,
ate, killed.
But it did
not matter, that last. The killing. She had taken
lives, too, when things got desperate enough. When drunken ex-soldiers had
thought a pretty young girl would be easy prey. They had learned different.
So it did
not matter. They were young, and she was old, but they were cast from the same
coin. They had all had lives filled with promise. They had all had futures set
for them, then yanked away. But she, at least, had had
the chance to grow old. Many of her grandchildren had not. They came bewildered
and lost through her door, born again through fire or bullet or drowning into
this new, dark life with nothing but a bag, maybe two, and a weapon that some
of them did not even know how to use yet. And night after night they left, until
one day, they simply didn't return.
And then the
next group of grandchildren would filter in, large eyed, lost, with a bag and a
weapon, and not much more. And like an old fool, she would get
attached. She would baby them, she would smile and show them how to make the
flower arrangements, and bake cakes and cookies for them when they got sad or
depressed. And she would worry over them until, one day, someone else walked
through her door to replace them.
She wondered
sometimes how anyone could live a life of loss as she did and survive. She
wondered how she did it, and sometimes, *why* she did. Sometimes, she just
wondered. Wisdom was said to come with age, but for all her age, all her
supposed wisdom, she could never understand how it was possible for a grandmother
to keep outliving her grandchildren.
She would
never have thought that was possible.
But
something new was stirring now. She knew what it was. She was an old woman, and
it was time to find her brothers and her parents, and all those friends who had
vanished like so much mist. Time to join the phantoms.
But she had
time still, she thought. This thing growing inside her was not growing so fast
yet. It caused her no discomfort, and she was a patient woman. She had waited
all these years for the ghosts to come for her. And again, she smiled for the
ghosts of her brothers, so that they would not think she was afraid.
She would
miss her granchildren, when she was gone. She would miss their constant
quarrels, and their bickering. She would miss the way they banded together,
banded around her, when things got beyond their control.
>>I
had a big brother like you once, Aya. Always thinking he had to look out for me.<<
She would
miss sitting in the shop with them, sipping tea while they mussed flowers and spilled
water and argued with the young girls who flocked there. So
nice to see young girls laughing. Girls who had never
touched and danced with death.
>>My
little brother, when he died, was younger than you, Omi. Had he grown up, I
would have wanted him to be like you. Brave, and honest.<<
But there
were other children waiting for her. Children she missed dearly, whose names
and faces she remembered, even if no one else did. Whose names and faces she
*had* to remember, because no one else would.
>>My
second older brother was like you, Ken. He was so sweet. Such a nice boy.<<
And she was
a patient old woman. These children would one day come see her, come meet her
other grandchildren, and her brothers, and her family. And
their family. Their time would come, too, though not, she hoped, for a
long, long time--She knew that was unlikely, but a prayer said from the heart
was never wasted--and when that time came, she would see them again. No goodbye
was ever *for* ever.
>>And
you, Youji. What will I ever do with you? How will you ever get a wife,
behaving like that?<<
She had been
young once, and beautiful, but she was an old woman, now. Old
and wrinkled and fragile, and sick. And these children were young and
strong, maybe the strongest she had ever cared for. They might make it. She
hoped they would. She hoped they would be all right without her. Hoped they
would remember to water the plants and do the laundry.
She hoped
they would remind Omi to do his schoolwork, and remind Youji to go bed at night
and wake up in the morning. Hoped they would remind Aya to come downstairs for
dinner and remind Ken not to go out without a coat. Because for once she
thought, she would do things right.
Finally, she
thought, it would not be her mourning. She would not, this time, out live her
grandchildren. This time, the mourners would not shake their heads and say
regretfully, they were so young. So young. What a
waste. This time they would smile and say, she was an old lady. We'll miss her,
but she had a long life. She was tired, and now she is with those brothers she
missed so dearly.
Her life had
been long, and it had been hard. Her life had sucked the youth out of her. But
it had been a good life, she thought. She had regrets, but she had sweet
memories, too. She had done what she could with what the gods had given her,
and there could be no regret in that, despite what she might have wished for
herself.
One last
time, she smiled at her reflection, then got stiffly
to her feet, unfolding from her kneeling position. She shuffled as she walked,
not the shuffle of young girls in wooden sandals and tight kimonos, but of old
women in house slippers, and the cat that trailed behind her was an old woman’s
cat. Not the silky longhaired cats of pretty young ladies, but a shorthaired,
fat thing. The sort of cat old ladies with allergies and arthritic fingers
kept. Arthritic finger could not brush long, silky cat hair very well.
She paused
to scoop up the feline, to hold it close and tell it the boys would look after
it when she was gone. And it purred for her, rumbling against her shrunken
chest. And through her thick glasses, she smiled down at it. Unless something
awful happened, she would not out live her grandchildren.
A
grandmother should never outlive her children.
If they were
still alive and arguing amongst themselves when her time came, she would be
happy. If they lived on, she could join the ghosts in peace. She would be, she
thought, a spirit who would always protect them.
And when
their time came, she would be waiting with their families and ancestors and
loved ones.
After all,
no goodbye was forever.
~owari
########
Where
have all the flowers gone?
Long
time passing...
Picked
by children every one
Long
time passing...
When
will they ever learn?
Oh,
when will they ever learn?
I
think that’s how the song goes.