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ahighwaychild · 5 years

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Under the Willows

‘Death is certain for the one who is born, and birth is certain for the one who dies. Therefore grieve not for what is inevitable.’ (Bhagvad Gita 2:27)

I was hesitant to sit on his bench, I hadn’t been here since he died, I spared a few minutes to read the engraving and thinking back to that epoch. Fifteen years on, it still looked relatively new and clean, which I was pleased about, I liked the idea of people unknowingly sitting on it, enjoying moments in time, reading his memorial and questioning what kind of person he was. He was gifted a bench in death, I would have given him something more, if I could. It served its purpose, I suppose, it was a sign that he was here, on this earth once, sand in his toes, guitar riffs ringing in his ears, life in his breath, his footsteps had certainly been here.

It was an extremely confusing time, I think my family tried to hide the severity of his illness from me, I suppose they wouldn’t want to worry a ten year old, only tell her what she needs to know, they probably agreed and I don’t blame them. I knew something was wrong, he was in and out of hospital, he became frail - skeleton like, our house was a cry for help then one day everything just became still. Screams of pain then nothing.

Over a hundred people came to his funeral, I couldn’t believe it, myriads of sad faces but no heart as sad as mine, I thought. The wake was filled with unfamiliarity, strangers giving me their condolences, some just smiled, unsure how to comfort a child - they were temperamental at the best of times. I remember thinking my mum and brothers had done a standing ovation job of speaking to the masses, they looked after everyone that day but themselves and after everybody wept we swept up the mess.

My heightened anxiety was an instantaneous by-product of his untimely demise, much to the concern of my earth walking family. I had become an overthinker, prone to ruminating, his death enforced to me the transience of life, the fragility of it all, the loss of love had been excruciatingly painful but we all have our crosses to bear - at some point. I was fearful of my mother dying, then I would be an orphan, I never wanted her to leave the house - unjustifiable thoughts clouded my brain so there was no room for reasoning. I thought about the age difference between my older brothers and I, surely they would die before me, how would I cope with losing them? It was a plague of irrational emotions but they dwindled as I got into my teens, they hadn’t completely vanished into the ether, so to speak, they were still in my psyche and would resurface from time to time.

The bench was situated in a picturesque garden, it currently personified summer and beauty. Children were feeding the quacking ducks and poised swans by the small lilypad filled pond in the distance while their parents watched them closely, marvelling at their child’s youth. The clouds must have been on vacation as the sky was of the clearest blue, dragonflies hovered high above, seemingly unsure of what direction to take and a multitude of colourful butterflies paid me a visit from time to time. I held a long stem of lavender in my hand comfortingly, its blissful aroma working its way through my senses occasionally. The windy willow trees lit up a memory in my mind of being at The Harrow park, falling terribly from my bicycle, my knees violently cut - the blood seeping through within seconds (which would form a small scar that lived on my knee cap - well into my teenage years,) my left elbow sore and grazed. I welcomed his big arms as they scooped me up under the weeping willows to safety. Nursing my cry, wiping neverending tears from my red flushed cheeks, with tissues that he always had in his pockets. It’s sadly the only memory I can remember vividly.

‘Tell me about him?’ My therapist had asked me.

‘He was a wise soul... Very knowledgeable, it was like he knew everything about every subject.’ It felt weird talking about him in the past tense, even after so long. ‘Well, he worked in the British Library, an archetypal librarian, our house was overflowing with books, mainly philosophy, the occult and classic fiction - he was a prolific Tolkien collector. I take after him, my brothers are more philistines.’ It was something I prided myself on, my love of the arts.

‘Tell me, Natasha, is there anything else you can tell me about him?’ My therapist insisted, looking for his biography from me.

‘I don’t know...’ I thought about what I should say. ‘He loved music, reggae, jazz and rock, Jimi Hendrix in particular, Along the Watchtower played at his funeral... He played the electric guitar, we still have like, five, at my mum’s house. I guess she wants to keep them. He enjoyed films - foreign - obscure types.’

‘Is that what you remember about him?’ She tilted her head to the side, probing.

‘I don’t actually remember any of that, that’s what I’ve been told.’ My memories of him were scarce, blurred and dreamlike sometimes I questioned whether he had even been here, if he was an illusion, a fictional character. The bicycle episode was the only palpable memory which strangely I was thankful for, at least it was something. Maybe I had blocked them out, locked them away, it was harder to miss something you didn’t remember. ‘I remember his accent.’ I smiled fondly, recounting his gentle voice. I hadn’t even realised he had an accent until a kid at school had pointed it out, only then I noticed his tone was different to my mums. ‘He was Indo-Guyanese, he was tall and had curly black hair, that’s why I don’t look fully English, or maybe I do, I don’t know. When he died, I remember thinking about my culture… and how it had died with him... But, it soon came knocking at my door and like an old friend - I invited it in...’

My mum is English, your quintessential cockney from Bethnal Green and he was from Berbice, Guyana. It sounds like an incredible pairing when I think of it in that context and they were to be fair, if there is such a thing as soul mates, they were the blueprint. He had arrived, fresh off the - aeroplane, at fourteen years of age and met my mum three years later, they evidently, hit it off and were together ever since. Three children and twenty-five years of marriage, although it should have been fifty more.

While he was here, there was no real fuss ever made about him being from Guyana, not that there should have been. I was so oblivious to my heritage, it was a quotidian reality, that I thought nothing of. As I grew more into my looks, more like him, I was frequently asked, ‘Where are you really from?’ which I didn’t actually find offensive, London is a multicultural city and I, equally curious about other people’s racially ambiguous aesthetics.

Our town was a suburban demographically British-white area, I would have bet all the money in my ten year old self’s piggy bank that we were the only Guyanese in town. All of his family lived in Queens, New York, in an area nicknamed Little Guyana, meaning there wasn’t any West Indian influence in our household once he’d left earth. I had more cousins than I could count, some of them I had met before but it’s hard to remember meeting family when you’re under five years old.

My mum had agreed that we could visit them in New York for my ‘Sweet Sixteenth’ birthday after I had been incessantly pleading for years. My family in NYC paid for our flights (they wouldn’t allow us to put a penny towards it) and we spent two life changing weeks in Little Guyana. They held a family reunion at my Auntie Shivanie’s house and I was overwhelmed with joy to see my ‘new’ family members - all here for me. I was showered with love, I had really not felt anything so euphoric before, it was as though we’d never been apart. My Auntie Shanti told me stories about my dads childhood, some which made me laugh and some made me cry. My mum and I looked at each other knowing what the other was thinking, ‘I wish he could be here’ but I knew he was there in a way.

Sitting at the front of the house was a common ritual in Richmond Hill, red cups, loud music and Guyanese food I’d never heard of or even tasted before - cook up rice (a sticky kind of rice with beans and other vegetables thrown in), katahar (jackfruit curry) , hassa curry (a tropical fish curry, it has the most unique taste.) I wasn’t keen on all their delicacies but hassa curry was now my favourite dish of all time which led my cousins to confirm ‘she ah true coolie white gyal.’ When my elders spoke, it was in such a thick broken English accent that I couldn’t decipher their words to anything understandable. To fit in, I would nod and smile politely, laugh when they laughed, it didn’t really matter to me. My cousins enjoyed mocking my English accent, I retaliated with my impression of their Guyanese accent (which admittedly sounded outrageous), this had them laughing all the way back to Kaieteur Falls.

There was no real resemblance between my cousins and I, you certainly couldn’t tell we were related. They introduced me to their friends, who were shocked at our revelation, ‘No way! You have a white cousin! From Eng-land, that’s dope!’ ‘Yo, she’s coolie too? No way?’ My cousins presented new genres of music to me - Soca, Dancehall, Chutney, Sundar Popo’s ‘Don’t Fall In Love’ was a song I had on repeat for a long while. Two weeks flew by too quickly. Two big jeeps filled with family came to wish us farewell at JFK airport, so many tears and so much love. I told them I would see them again soon.

‘D’you mind if I sit here?’ An elderly man asked me, pointing at the space next to me on the bench, The Times newspaper folded in his other arm. He was about six foot but had a thin frame, glasses sitting on the tip of his sharp pointy nose and mostly grey hair, well, what was left of it.

‘Of course not, be my guest.’ I smiled at him, budging over ever so slightly to create more room, it almost brought me back to reality as my thoughts had spun me into another universe altogether.

My trip down a very winding memory lane had been undeniably cathartic and overdue. A journey complete with introspection, contemplation on the effects of his death to now being still in the present moment as the author of my tale. His death didn’t define me, my race didn’t either nor my religion, I was defined by my spirit and everything else were merely influences on this life’s path.

The old man abruptly swivelled in his position, making me jump slightly at his sudden movement. He pushed his thin silver framed oval glasses up towards his small brown eyes and carefully read the words inscribed on the bench, ‘Ronald eh?’ He nodded at me. ‘I have to pay my respects to those who have left us, I always take notice of these things, I do.’ He put his hands together in a praying motion towards the sky then casually returned to his paper.

I looked at him shocked that he had acknowledged the subject of my visit, he noticed me staring conspicuously at him.

‘Yes?’ He turned towards me.

‘He was my dad.’ I smiled.

#story #short story #amwriting #writing #life #love #loss

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