The
only clear memory she had of him was his back, dark against the sunset. In her memories, he was always either leaving, or arriving, but never by her side.
With the first cry of the cockerel, dawn
sunshine began to overflow into the room, seeping from the window sill onto the
smooth, worn floorboards to flood May’s sheets. A golden tendril gently
stroked her eyelids, coaxing her into awakening. Delicious warmth cushioned her
body in the softness of her bed as her vision cleared. The hazy edges of a
half-forgotten dream seeded the rare bulb of contentment within her breast,
lingering at the edge of remembrance. Sunshine, ever mischievous, extended
curious fingers further, cradling a photograph that hung on the opposing wall,
the same that May’s eyes settled upon every morning.
It was an old photograph, taken almost two decades ago now. It was of a tall man, with his head and neck wound completely
within a cream scarf, draped with rich bourbon, oriental robes and dark skin boots
resting against his motorbike. He was framed with green rolling hills dotted with fleecy sheep and
forested mountains fading into the horizon. The villagers had always coined him
as the ‘wandering visitor’ though they knew that he had been birthed right here. Cradled within his right arm was a small, black haired child
with wild, laughing eyes.
The distant echo of wind chimes was
followed by the thud of a door down the hallway. The twinkling notes danced
within the gentle breeze wafting through her window for a few more moments,
before dissipating into the morning.
'Aunt May!'
Time
to get up.
*****
He
was the strong arms that carried him in his earliest memory.
‘Grandma,
tell me more about father.’
‘Alright, one more story. When your May was young she was quite mischievous, just like you, you know. She’d always wander into the forest, following your dad, and she’d
never be able to keep up. He’d always give us an awful fright when he came home alone,
and she’d always find the most obscure places to hide along the way. But he’d always find her
before everyone else, in the hollow of a tree, underneath a boulder…’
‘Mum, don’t tell him those things!’
May found Jun and her elderly mother at
the breakfast table, bent over a huge pile of scrambled eggs and toast. Was
this the same baby that had been dropped into her arms almost two decades ago?
Such a spitting image of his father. Jun had turned to her with a familiar
disappointment; she had the habit of interrupting their talks. May returned
his look with a glare. Grandma shuffled away from the table to fetch another
plate from the cabinet.
‘Jun, your father left you here with me, and he's not coming back.’
Jun lowered his eyes and nodded, digging
into his breakfast with renewed vigor. They’d been through this many times
before, fraying their tempers into transparency, their spirits brittle and
their emotions tumult. It just hadn’t been worth it.
‘Oh, and Jun, I need to go to town today,
could you look after the shop for awhile?’
‘Sure Aunt May’
******
The
townspeople had muttered at the departure of the wild child. He’d be up to no
good, they’d all whispered.
Jun couldn’t recall his father, beyond a
vague memory of being held in someone’s arms. Every impression of that man had
been derived from the simple photograph that hung upon their bedroom walls, and
decorated the shelf in the kitchen. It wasn’t enough. He’d wanted more.
Grandma told amusing stories of his
father’s childhood with May, told stories of how he’d disappear for months,
years at a time, only return with fantastical tales of adventure and discovery.
But it wasn’t enough. Grandma, in her age, could never recall in that much detail
where his father had been or seen. He could almost taste it on his tongue, the excitement that surely flooded his father. He too could feel wonderlust stir in his veins.
It was strange, being the closest relation
to his father in the family, and yet the only one unable to recall his face. May had almost filled the gap of a mother, and the grave of his real parent was
only a short walk up the mountain. All his life, May and grandma had been the only people real to him. Jun had long since learnt not to ask about his father. All inquiries
were met with ‘He was a bastard that led my sister to her death’, or ‘He
should’ve never came back to marry her’. Jun wondered, sometimes, if his father
had ever tried to return, or if May’s
protectiveness had rendered too potent a barrier.
I
want to meet him. This extraordinary father of mine.
*****
It was a simple charm really, just a small shell worn smooth by the tide, and a hole bore through the top, a strand of twine and a loop. It was all she had.
All their lives, they had lived by the sea. May was the youngest child in the village with her ash blonde pigtails and her wide green eyes still awkwardly thin. Her sister, sweet sixteen, had beautiful black hair, and eyes that danced. And then, him. Still three children back then, running around the island with bare feet, camping in the forests, getting lost, swimming in the summer, skiing in winter, fishing, woodfires and smoke...
And love. Love that blossomed in the summer, and the triple became a duo...
May sometimes wondered, back then, watching her sister and him walking hand in hand on their beach, picnicking in their forest, if things would've ever been different if she had been the eldest, or the only child.
Then she watched him leave, and watched her heart break. The frail elder sister was with child, blooming and blossoming, but faded just as the spring flowers wilted with the first gust of winter's wind.
And then she was all alone, with his child. Waiting for him to come home.
*****
‘I want to find my father…’
‘No.’
‘May...’
‘He’s my
son!’
‘He’s also his son!’
‘I hate
him!’
‘May,
we know.’
May’s hands shook. A hollowing despair
had swallowed the bulb of happiness the morning had left her. She clawed at
herself, willing for her body to move, to stretch out her hands, to stop them
shaking. To grab her son, and clasp him to her chest. She’d felt this before,
when he’d left for the first time. She
watched his back disappear by the same road her son would leave her, a black
dot along the dusky road fading into the unseen horizon.
‘May, all children have to leave their
parents sometime’
‘But why am I always left behind?’
Grandma shuffled away, leaving May staring out of the window with unseeing eyes at that forsaken road.
She felt
her daughter’s pain; that man had been like family, growing up with her
daughters, and a part of her had always known he would be part of the family.
But she saw Jun too, the hesitation every time he picked up the photo in the
frame, the chasm that could not be filled with merely stories. He needed
something solid. He needed the father that both of them knew so well, and yet
he was in ignorance of.
*****
The two women stood hand in hand, and Katie
could not help but chuckle at her own helplessness.
The
damsel waiting for the return of her knight.
It was a strange de javu. They had both
left as boys and one day, they will both return broad shouldered, confident,
and a million miles away. She could feel an elbow dig into her side, reminding
her.
She forced a smile on to her face, and
waved to the receding figure.
As
she watched him leave, her wearied mind had forever incased him in his wide
eyed, carefree childhood. From somewhere far away, drifted the sweet, hollow notes of the wind chime, carried by the breeze.
