Sunset

Everyday when the sun begins to settle in the west, he pulls a stool to himself and sits down next to his wife. She is a beauty. In all his years he has never seen another match up to her. And as she grows older, she only grows more radiant.

As the lines on her face became more pronounced and her back began to arch; and as her limbs began to grow weaker, the life in her seemed to grow stronger. He is pretty sure if he tried something that would annoy her, she would pack a good punch in his belly. He did not dare risk it.

She sits with him every day to watch the sun tuck itself into the earth. She sits on her mat while she sorts groundnuts or wild leaves that she later has prepared for him. Sometimes they talk about how old they are or how they had once almost been drowned because the cow that was pulling their cart went crazy. They talk about their children and their adorable and naughty grandchildren. They talk about the life they have lived, and the love they have created.

Every evening as dusk approaches, she reminds him of the young man he once was. Utterly taken by her from the moment he laid eyes on her. She reminds him of how suddenly clumsy he got when she watched him work on his reed mats and how he seemed to be unable to function properly without speaking to her in the morning. She reminds him that the sun will set soon on their time together, but it is a beautiful sunset. A beautiful end to a life lived fully even when he was not sure whether he was living or dying.

She’s his old little lady, gentle and beautiful just like the sunset.

Dru_Dru

Heartbeat

The rhythmic thump-thump against my cheek is like a lullaby. It is soft and consistent, gentle and assuring. It seems to sing a song, tell a tale of what keeps it going. It quietly relives those moments that gave it the most meaning.

I lay my head on your chest and listen to it. Sometimes it falters like it can’t go on. Sometimes it skips a half beat and quickly catches up with itself, like it admonished itself for being less than what it should be.

The rising and falling of your chest is somewhat like a rocking pillow. It takes away my worries and my thoughts of what ifs and what is to come. And your heart beats a little louder to remind me that I matter.

As I lay my hand over yours, and yours closes over mine, our hearts beat in sync. It’s just for a second, but it echoes into forever and I know that wherever we go from here, I’ll always be yours and you’ll always be mine.

Dru_Dru

The sugar song

I’m not sure if you know how to sing or not. I’ve heard you a few times, but never long enough to determine whether you go off key or hit the right notes. 

I like it when you sing. It took me a while to realise the first time I heard you. It was almost like it was not happening. But it made me smile. And you smiled too. And when I asked what you were singing you said you weren’t sure what it was. I thought it sounded sweet so I called it “The Sugar Song”.

   I still don’t know what that little piece is, but I like to imagine it has a specific dance attached to it, like Cameo’s Candy, or the whip and the naenae. 

I hope I’ll hear it again soon. I promise I’ll pretend to like it if it’s not nice. I’ll even do the boogy with you. 

Whatever happens, you’ll still be as sweet as The Sugar Song.

Dru_Dru

Locked in a Jar

I have a bunch of papers in a jar. Lots of different colours, relatively the same size and with almost the same colour ink on each of them. I suppose the ink is meant to give them some value. I think it does; valuable memories.

Memories of ordinary days. Days that otherwise would have passed and been long forgotten. Days too frequently repeated that looking at them again would not tickle one’s fancy.   

The papers give life to my jar. They remind me that some days are a drag, but they still need to be faced. Some days are better off having not come into existence but they did anyway, and they persisted for all of the 24 hours. They remind me that like those horrid days, I should keep going till the end even when the time crawls as slow as a snail.   

I lock these papers in a jar and I look at this jar every time my skies are grey. The yellow and green shine particularly brighter on days when the sun shines the most. The purple and red reminds me of dusk, the end of the day, time to look back and be thankful for something.   

I have all this goodness locked in a jar. I just don’t realise how good it is until I open it.

Dru_Dru

Breakable

She stared at the tiny pieces that lay scattered on the floor. How had this happened? Pieces of broken ceramic in an array of colours and varying sharp angles seemed to be arranged in a manner that venerated her. They surrounded her like she was the centre of the universe. What had she done?

She knew she should have listened to herself, but she never did. Just like the time she went against her better judgement and gave him a second chance. The pieces on the floor reminded her of just how physical the pain had been when he had left her for another a second time. 

She took a few breaths and tried to recollect herself. The noise of the crash had been deafening. This had been her mother’s vase. She had watched it fall in slow motion and when it finally touched the ground, the sound of crashing ceramic, spilling water and displaced flowers hitting the floor blotted out all other sound. She could not even hear her own breathing. It was an heirloom, handed down from generation to generation and she knew that she needed to pass it on to. Instead she had let it slip.

When she was younger she thought it was resilient, like her mother. Able to face harsh conditions and still remain standing strong. She had thought that if only she could touch it then she too would be as beautiful. She too would embody in her the ability to be made of different colours and strange colour combinations and be a masterpiece. That she too would be priceless. That she would be unbreakable.

Turns out it was breakable. 

And so was she.

-Dru_Dru