7395 [December 23, 2006]
gAmi,
are you ready yet?h Mother cries with more than a hint of agitation in her
inflection.
gIfm
– umph – almost – urf – there!h I shout back from the second floor, lunging
with all my might at the formidable suitcase before me that stubbornly refuses
to shut.
gNo,
youfve been ealmost theref for too long.
Wefre already thirty minutes late!
Ifm coming up there right now.
How come the one time I ask you to pack for yourself, I still
have to do it for you?h
I
sigh in defeat, standing back from the offending travel parcel. Once my mom sets herself on a task, she
finishes it – her way or the highway.
I know her well enough to just stand back and let the human typhoon take
care of business.
The
door flies open on cue to reveal Mother in center stage, waving her arms
around, her gestures explaining clearly enough what her incoherent shouting
attempts to convey. She stomps to
the suitcase and flips the top open.
And she glares.
gAmi,
wefre going to Grandmafs for a weekend, not a month! What on Earth do you need all these
sets of clothes for? Dance
dresses? Nice blouses?h
gItfs
just in case, Mom!h I reply.
gWhat,
in case Prince Charming pops his head into that godforsaken swamp?h
gNo!h
I counter immediately, although I havenft formulated any rebuttal at all. I just donft like adding any momentum
to an obviously loose caboose.
gCome
on, letfs go,h she says more calmly, zipping the mound of clothes sitting on
the bed looking all lonely. I run
up and hug them, reassuring them that it was nothing personal.
gArgh,
useless daughter,h mumbles Mother, shaking her head and interrupting my
poignant moment. She drags me by
the arm downstairs into the car while lugging the suitcase with the other hand. Shefs just that kind of person.
Grandma
lives two hours away if the weatherfs good, more like four if itfs
raining. The dirt roads in the
country are fickle, and even when we take Dadfs truck instead, some points are
just impassable. The house is
really out in the middle of nowhere.
Old-fashioned, state of nature – the whole nine yards. There isnft even heating, for crying
out loud! I always get consigned
into cutting some firewood whenever I visit since Ifm the one with the most
gyouthful energy,h ignoring completely the fact that a city girl has the least
idea of all how to do these sorts of things.
gWefre
almost there,h says Mother. But
the scenery looks the same as it did thirty minutes ago: we could have just
done a full three-sixty for all I know.
I groan and lean my head against the window, my skin squeezing against
the distinct coldness of the glass through a thin drape of my hair.
gWhy
are we visiting Grandma again?h I ask idly, even though I know itfs bound to
stir up a bit of controversy.
gAmi,
we donft need reasons to go see family!
Ifm not looking forward to when you have kids, if youfre only going to
visit when you need something.h
gDonft
worry, Mom,h I say. gThat wonft be
for decades. I canft even keep a
steady boyfriend right now.h
gJust
work hard in class. Forget boys if
you want to even have a job or a future!h she recites for the thousandth
time. Itfs like her mantra or
something. Of course, she married
Dad when she was eighteen, but she never brings up that little detail.
gYeah,
yeah, I know, Mom.h Why do
I bring this kind of conversation upon myself? Probably because Ifm bored. The whole scent of life is just so lackluster. Mother always says that therefs magic
in the everyday world, but I can even see in her eyes that routine is really wearing
thin its welcome.
At
long last, we begin the descent into the valley where my grandmother lives, the
tiered marshy farmlands etched into the foothills on either side of the
road. At the bottom, at the edge
of a tree-covered mountain too steep to cultivate for crops, is the rickety
wooden arch that marks out the beginning of the driveway that you wouldnft be
able to recognize otherwise.
During the spring, the wood would be covered in honeysuckle and morning
glory blossoms, but itfs bare now.
We
turn in, the setting sun disappearing from view behind the thick overgrowth of
trees. We pass under long branches
with dried seed pods and dead vines dangling down that occasionally intercept
our windshield wipers. The batting
and whipping sounds of the foliage punching the thick glass continues until at
last we reach a small grassy clearing with only a moss-covered, rusting soccer
goal sitting in it.
When
we step out of the car, Mother tells me after a brief survey, gAmi, Grandma
isnft home yet, so we canft get in.
Why donft you go check if there is any firewood out around back.h
gYeah,
I will,h I answer, walking around to the back to discover, to my dismay, that
there isnft any – I guess the neighbor has neglected to bring his usual
load. A blustery blast of
moisture-ridden cold air rushes about, making the leaves rattle. Itfs no surprise that the store of
firewood is gone.
gTherefs
none left,h I report back with a shout.
I start heading back around to the front, refusing to go wood-hunting
without being asked. I play tennis
for the school, but the racket isnft a freaking log.
gHoney,
you know what Ifm going to ask you to do.h
gNo,
I donft,h I say.
gYes,
you do,h she says back.
I
decide to provide evidence for my claims by innocently popping back to the
front, but the plan doesnft work, as she shoves me back.
gJust
grab some fatter branches,h she instructs.
gYeah,
yeah,h I say.
I
trudge up the hill, not searching carefully since I know all the usable wood
nearby has been harvested already.
Despite the cold, I feel myself starting to sweat a little from climbing
up the steep mountainside, enduring a few scares as the moist dead leaves would
occasionally slide out from below my feet. Night was already racing across the fields at a thousand
miles an hour, sweeping the world around me into darkness: I would need to
hurry.
I
zig-zag higher and higher until I am no longer in territory I had visited
during past visits. Up ahead, I
see a huge downed branch that almost seems to twinkle before my eyes. I rush forward, eager to get this task
over with so that I can go and enjoy Grandmafs famous corn soup before it loses
its fresh warmth.
But
I stop two feet short of the branch, for peeking out from beneath a mound of
pine needles, crumpled oak leaves, and lichens is a small polished surface made
of peppery-speckled marble of varying shades of gray. Kneeling down, I sweep away the mat of flora with my gloved
hands: first a small portion, then, realizing that the marble is part of a
larger ring, I move around clockwise in a crouched position and complete the
entire thing. I eagerly scoop out
the settled contents in the center of the ring that disguised the whole
structure as an oversized haystack and then flop down on my rear end to admire
the beautiful abandoned fountain I have uncovered. The spout in the center seems to be intact, but it is
unclear if any water can still flow into it.
Night
has completely fallen by now, and only moonlight and guideposts below allow me
to apprehend enough of the marble to recognize its antique elegance. I heave a slow sigh and prop myself up
using my hands, grabbing the branch by two particularly sturdy off-shoots and
tugging it – or tossing it – all the way down. With a great growl, I swing the axe over and over again
until manageable chunks of the branch fall away, each of which has to be split
to reveal the more flammable inner wood.
I cradle five chunks of the wood in my aching arms and carry them
inside.
I
immediately catch a whiff of the corn soupfs sweet and spicy fragrance as I
enter and dump the branches into the fireplacefs brass wood holders.
gWhere
have you been?h asks Mother.
gIn
the backyard,h I answer.
gFor
that long?h Mother doesnft even
turn towards me. Instead, she just
tousles her brilliant jet-black hair with lean, pointy fingers, watching
Grandma transport the pot of soup.
gMaybe she was just admiring the fireflies,h says Grandma in her shrill, crackly tone that carries unusual warmth and weight. gNo harm in stopping to watch the fireflies. After all, theyfve been waiting three years to strut their stuff on Broadway, and their show only runs for two weeks.h
gReally?h
I ask, somewhat surprised.
gYes,
thatfs the truth,h says Grandma, her voice growing louder all of a sudden
midway through her sentence as she turns around to bring the steaming pot of
corn soup to the oval dinner time.
gCome
now, Ifm sure youfre hungry from all that chopping.h
The
growling in my tummy agrees with her.
I savagely stab at the liquid, but the viscous soup waterfalls into the
metal spoon at the same rate it always has. I take a long sip, not caring to blow it a couple of times
first.
gOw,h
I yelp under my breath, massaging the roof of my mouth with my tongue. I hold the second spoonful a few inches
above the bowl and wait for the heat to dissipate before taking another
sip. This one is just warm enough
that I can feel it coursing down my throat spreading warmth out from the center
of my body.
gTaste
good?h asks Grandma.
gVery
good,h I reply.
The
rest of the evening passes smoothly, and the crackling of the fire brings back
memories of when I was a kid, listening to Grandma tell her stories while Mom
and Dad would take turns rocking me back and forth. Grandma told the usual tales – Little Red Riding Hood, The
Three Little Pigs, stories of that sort – but she always had her own
imaginative twists here and there.
And boy did she know how to engage an audience – she would tease, then
tease some more, then interview the unsuspecting people in the front row (which
would be all of us). While my
friends would talk about the thrills of Mission Impossible and the Super Bowl,
Ifd talk about the drama of Hansel and Gretel, which always managed to
disappoint. I clearly was not cut
out to be Grandma.
But
those days are long over; Grandmafs voice is always a bit hoarse. She always claims that itfs because she
just got over a cold, but after four times of her colds apparently timing
themselves right before our visit, we simply stopped believing her. Shefs getting old, but the day after
day of her mild life, with the climax of cooking corn soup for her
grandchildren, add up to something complete.
Itfs
like the bowl I have before me: some people enjoy it by savoring every little
golden kernel, every swirl of egg.
But it takes exquisite care and thick, fuzzy bowl-coasters to keep the
soup warm all the while. I have
seen a lot of people whose bowls of soup have gone straight-out frigid before
they get to the last kernel.
Thatfs
why I like to gulp it down as fast as I can – carpe diem, if I may twist Horace
into a gourmand for a moment – while itfs still warm. Even if it burns me, therefs that vitality, making all the
little eyes inside me turn to the soup; just the soup, just this moment.
gAre
the fireflies still out, you think?h I ask after placing my bowl in the
sink. Mother and Grandma are still
chomping and chatting away leisurely.
gOf
course,h replies Grandma. gWefll
be here for awhile, so why donft you go out and see them?h
gAlright,h
I say, walking with deliberation to the door and exiting quickly, ripping off
the fireplacefs warmth as one would rip off a bandage to get the pain over
with.
The
nighttime air is cooler than I expect, and I regret leaving my jacket inside
the house. It is as though the
earth below me is exhaling after a long sip of hot tea, the warmth swirling up
and out of Mother Naturefs mouth.
I feel almost lifted towards the sky, something slipping away fm my
hair, my skin, my finger tips, little fishing-wires dangling down from the
clouds and sticking to me, imperceptible to my physical senses.
I
inhale a deep breath of the nipping air, small droplets of water catching
inside my nose. Then I start up
the mountain, looking for fireflies.
I do not have to travel far before I spot a brief flash. At first, I donft believe it. Second time, I move closer to the
violet-black aftershock stained onto my eyes. Third timefs the charm, and suddenly I am surrounded by
fireflies all around, their yellow-green abdomens scribbling dotted curves all
over the forest.
I
reach out towards one, wondering if it might land on my hand, when in an
instaneous flash, the light scatters in a quickly-fading burst. I stumble backwards, tripping over a
root and landing on my rear end, gravity tugging ever so insistently on my
unbalanced body.
Firm
hands grip my shoulders. My mind
races; it leaps from theory to theory until it finds safety in logic.
gGrandma?h
I ask hesitantly.
gDo
I look like her?h comes a voice – a deep bass voice with a little swagger to
it.
gWhat
the hell!h I scream, leaping up frog-style and turning around to behold
something blinding.
It
is a young man, dressed in a long, flowing robe-like garment that is shockingly
green and gold, with streamers and ribbons abounding left and right. His long golden hair falls down the
sides of his long and edgy profile with the intensity of water boiling over the
rim of a neglected pot.
I
back up and my hands instinctively reach for sharp stones to use as
projectiles, but my eyes defiantly betray me, staring intently at his form from
bottom to top. My heart is
pounding and one part of me shrieks in violence while the other bubbles with
arousal. His character just strips
loose the heart from its lodging within the confines of the body.
gDonft
worry, Ami, Ifm harmless as a fly,h he says reassuringly, but my fists, having
relaxed a little, clench tightly once more as I wonder why he knows my
name. Without my permission, a
stone flies out of my right hand and soars towards him. He effortlessly raises his hand and
catches it, closing his fingers around it and then opening his fist anew, the
stone now a blooming bright fuschia flower, which he casts aside. I watch as it twirls down to the ground
and spot his feet shuffling towards me.
He
stops right next to me. He does
not touch me. He only waits. I look him over again. His hands are behind his back; I check
and see that they are empty. But
as I unfold his fingers with mine, I begin to feel his energy melding with
mine. He is a Power, a Passion.
My
body leaps towards his and our chests meet in an awkward one-sided
embrace. He still stands there, as
though testing me, as though asking me a question with all eyes, all ears on
me. Itfs my choice.
I
lean in and whisper into his ear in a seductive breath, smoky with passionate
moisture that came from God knows where: gTake me.h
I
do not know why I trust him; Ifm not even sure I trust him at all. But there is a clairvoyance to the
surreality; I am at once intoxicated by his pheromones and also completely in
control of my desires. I simply
know that I want him, and I do not want to back down.
I stare into his eyes and challenge him. I feel that fire burning in my eyes so strongly that tears begin to well up to cool them down. He smiles.
Suddenly, itfs his ballgame. I am disarmed and I slide back one step; he moves forward one; we ebb and flow like boxers and dancers. He takes my hand into his and squeezes ardently.
gAs
you wish, my lady,h he says.
And
I am humbled. Standing there with
our arms clasped, I am keenly aware of the imbalance of him on one side and me
on the other: his brilliance to my normality.
gNo,
why me?h I ask. gIfm not even
dressed nicely.h
gNot
dressed nicely?h he says. gYou are
dressed irresistably.h
He
right hand releases my left and orbits out of my sight until I feel it again in
the valley of my waist, having slipped effortlessly below the bottom edge of my
shirt. And then it slides slowly
down until it is tucked just below the waistband of my jeans, cupping the
tender skin about my hips. I
shudder and look at him; he seems pleased that I am enjoying his gesture. I let myself fall to my left, my head
resting along his shoulders and neck, a few strands brushing just below his
chin.
gShall
we go?h he asks.
gWhere
to?h
gThe
fountain, of course,h he says with confidence. He leads me up the mountain to the place where I had been
before, but to my surprise, the marble structure is bright with shining jewels,
and the centerpiece is spouting water generously and vigorously, the gushes of
water getting caught in the wind, falling down at an angle, and then splashing
down with a loud slap. I feel the
spray of cold water on my face and arms.
gItfs
been a long time since someone saw this fountain in its full glory,h he
says. gI wasnft even alive back
then, but they say it was a girl with voluminous raven locks and defiant
eyes. Slender fingers of a
princess, too.h
I
stare into the fountainfs water at the marblefs edge where the water is
calmer. My hair is indecisive,
like my heart. Itfs every shade
from blond to black and all the earthen hues in between. Some of it is straight, some of it is
curly, a few long strands swinging down from behind my ears like untied
curtains as I lean over.
gMy
hairfs ugly, isnft it?h I say. gWere
you hoping for someone more beautiful?h
He
pushes my hair back behind my ear and kisses me on the cheek.
gHey,
donft avoid the question!h I shout gleefully, grabbing his shoulders and giving
a shake. He loses his balance –
perhaps intentionally – and falls into the fountain, taking me down with
him. gStop it, wefre going to
catch a cold,h I protest, but he just splashes me with the water and kisses me
again, this time on the lips. He
pulls away after only a brief moment and sits there, licking the little water
droplets from the fountain off of his lips. I crawl towards him, trapping the edge of his soaked
viridian garments below my knees.
His
drenched sleeves shimmer in the light, the fabric glistening with dribbles of
water that canft get into the saturated pockets between the threads. I kiss him once, twice, over and over,
and then I plant my lips on his and do not let go. Our tongues collide and intertwine, and he begins to make
low rumbling sounds something like the cross between a moo and a purr. His sounds become more and more
insistent, and I realize that hefs actually trying to say something – a plea or
warning, perhaps, judging by his fearful eyes?
But
itfs too late – we lose our balance and I hear a loud cloth-tearing sound as we
crash down into the pool. He lies
motionless and I frantically check to see if his head is okay. As I cradle his head affectionately in
my palms, he springs into action, flipping us over, his now bare form sliding
over me. With expert dexterity, he
undresses me, kissing all over as though the warmth from his lips could protect
the skin he uncovered from the cold of the night. And his lips are warm to the touch, but it is only
his body, almost luminescent in the otherwise pitch-dark forest, that grants me
that fireside comfort. I cling to
it, frot against it, wrap it around me, comforting myself with a blanket of
ecstasy.
By
now we probably look like ducks trying to swim in a shallow puddle, so awkward
but so oblivious to make up for it.
Without thought, without restraint, we are like two fireflies trying to
find one another, our lights blinking in offset syncopation but slowly
approaching unison as we grow closer and closer, finally seeing each other with
true eyes.
My
heart is pounding as the last waltz draws to its fanfare of a finale. My eyes open wide as my body pulsates
with the boom-cha-cha, and as I sing out in the most ancient tongue, he hands
me his precious gift, which I will treasure and keep as long as I live.
And so the orchestra stops,
abruptly. In an overwhelming burst
of light, he shatters into a million crystal shards. As they fade into dying embers, they settle down over my
whole field of view, blanketing me as I begin to shiver from the brisk cold c
and then lose consciousness.
When
I awaken again, I pat myself and the ground below me – it is all dry. I sit up and find myself fully clothed
in the middle of the old dilapitated fountain. A few leaves have already found their way back into the
basin, and I notice numerous cracks in the stone here and there that would
certainly render the fountain incapable of holding any water.
In
a daze, I drift back down the mountain, sneaking into the silent, almost sacred
house. I touch my index finger to
my lips, lost in thought. And
then, in front of the fireplace, the wood still crackling away as it had when I
left, I lay my head down and fall asleep.