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The colours turn to gray that evening, as the sun melts away beneath
the horizon. I miss the orange tinge it has upon my skin moments ago. I miss
the smell of the grass while it was warm. I miss the birds calling to each
other to come home. I miss everything there is to miss when you have been
waiting for the night.
I walk the short pier and try to see beneath the waters. This
rippling mirror is so rightly creating an image of how I feel inside. My
turmoil is not too abrupt, just a subtle disturbance in my pleasant surface. I
take my time to savour my alone. I take my time to feel the wind making fun of
me, taunting me coldly. I take my time listening to the rustling of the trees
as they whisper about my pathetic figure, low and alone, beneath their gaze. I
take my time to see the stars blink in blatant astonishment at my unfortunate
story.
And then they change their tune, ever so effortless, as if they’ve
been singing in the same note all the while. I hear them say my prayers for me.
I hear them caress my heart as if their own babe is hurt. I hear them come near
to me, make me feel fine, make me feel whole, as if this gaping wound I carry
so hidden beneath my smile is no longer bleeding but is a mere scar I tell
stories about at night.
There is a sunken boat waiting by the river bank. There it stays
until I feel it is safe to sit in the hole-ridden seat, take up its rotten oar
and slowly make my way elsewhere. I am afraid of my journey. I am afraid of the
unknown waters, unfriendly constellations and unfamiliar clouds. I breathe in
the wet air of this place I like to pretend is home.
The pier I stay on is a polite goodbye to my reluctant body. I look
across at the garden. I see the dark heavy trees, saddened by grief. I see the
fireflies peeping in and out of the vines, like light signals to a missing
person, calling them home. I see the brooding shadows that slowly envelopes the
place, a shadow containing memories of sunlit merriment, memories I don’t
belong to but wish I did.
I’ve walked that garden a short while ago. I tried to make the
flowers grow, where the buds have withered away. I tried to push the branches
of the trees to strike a pose that is familiar, like a smile across a beloved
face but they deny my touch. I caught those fireflies in my hands and reached
out to let them go again but they grew confused and scared and remained still
yet lit in my palms. I traced the name upon the tree in the heart of the garden
and wish it was mine. I traced the name as if I traced a scar and I feel a
familiar pain in my own heart, as if a kindred feeling is calling out.
The garden I love. The garden I have always rowed by again and
again, never brave enough to set foot upon, always circling the ones beside but
never entering this wonder. I’ve worn my boat down because of you. I’ve rotten
my dress as I stand in the waters, catching up courage to climb those cold
stone steps to you. I’ve sunk my boat and left myself trapped on your pier.
I stand up and look past the river bank and see the boat. Maybe
tomorrow I’ll patch it up. Maybe, if she comes, I’ll leave as fast as I can row
away. I can still remember how the grass stayed brown under my feet, the
flowers did not smell sweet for my nose and the leaves crumbled under my touch.
I know I don’t belong. I know I am not the one with the burning touch, the
fingers that etched the name upon the heart-tree, the fingers that made the
fireflies burn brighter or the flowers bloom prettier, or that let the branches
wave elegantly, or make the leaves whisper names.
But here I sit on the pier, let my legs dangle over the edge, my
back to the garden, my sight on the horizon. I can’t leave yet. I won’t leave
this garden alone. Not as it pines quietly for the goddess that walked its
path. I will not let the trees die, although I will not be able to make it grow
strong. I will not let the buds recede, although I will not be able to make the
spring come. I will not let the fireflies stop their busy dance, although I
will not be able to understand their movements.
I shall be the unwanted gardener in this untended beauty. I shall
wait as it waits for the goddess that walked the path, the name that burned the
heart, the voice that thrilled the flowers and the smile that lit the sky.
Until she comes, my love is the only tenderness I can offer.
The moon is up tonight. It is smiling at my braveness. I smile back
at how wise he is. He shines on my boat, like a soft invitation to save myself
from uncertainty, save myself from unwanted conditions. I sit and talk to the
moon. I let him know his garden is in good hands until the sun rises again.
Until the sun rises, I shall always be here on this pier, scarred but smiling,
hopeful without magic.
So here I am in this gray world, waiting for the sunrise with the
moon.