“He was a great man.” That’s what
they all said, over and over again, as they shyly exchanged conversation
between sips of champagne in old, fragile glasses.
“Ebony
was just such a great man. Wasn’t that old either. I guess the good always die
young, huh?”
This
was their safe talk, the buffer zone in the postmortem eulogy. They weren’t
offending anyone, they weren’t bringing back a surge of memories that would
break down some newly constructed damn which held back a loved ones tears- they
were simply telling the truth. They were telling what they knew.
Outside
the wind howled and rattled the shutters. It was as if the world was suddenly a
hallow, abandoned place without him. The noise outside overpowered the hushed
whispers of the mourners, and Tabitha continuingly found herself listening to
the wind instead. The past weeks had taken a toll on her. Not necessarily the
energy needed to put the funeral and reception together, but the pain of coming
home to an empty bed every night- that was what took the most from her.
Two
and half hours later, Tabitha sat on the couch alone in her small, outdated
living room. The grieving family and close friends had finally left when they
were sure she no longer needed that imperative human touch that those need when
they lament for their loss, and that now she just wanted to be left in personal
solitude. A mass of empty glasses crowded the counter next to the kitchen sink.
No one had offered to help wash them.
The
wind shrieked erratically, while, in contrast, the grandfather clock ticked of
the passing seconds. Tabitha rested her elbows on her knees and her chin in her
hands. On the mantel stood a little tin box, rustic looking, but polished.
Ebony had left a will, stating very clearly that he wished to be cremated. But
that was all he had demanded. And now, looking at that tiny enclosed box,
Tabitha had a feeling that that was not where he belonged. She stood up, cupped
the box in her palms, and walked outside into the wind, letting the screen door
slam behind her.
In
the far corner of the yard stood a massive apple tree. Its trunk was thick and
sturdy, with deep grooves that swirled in every which way. The branches had
grown sturdy and anchored, proof of many years of climbing and hanging and
swinging. From the braches sprouted embryonic apple buds, surrounded by a sea
of transparent green leaves that seemed to reach out at every possible angle.
Its colossal presence pronounced itself extremely against the surrounding brush
and planted flowers, but like a grandfather, it did not overpower- it simply
protected.
Tabitha
stood under the tree, and looked up at the austere, gray sky revealed between
the leaves, frantic with the winds touch. Then, she took a deep breath, opened
the box, gathered a handful of Ebony in her hand, and tossed him into the air.
The ashes were carried up by the wind, and then settled between the bulging
roots, stretching along the frozen grass.
A
burden had been graciously lifted off her back. Everything was finally at
peace, because he had found his place. He belonged with his tree; dwelling in
the surrounding soil as its fuel to feed it, help it, to let it grow. Ebony was
now not dead, but very much alive, still living to serve those he loved.
Is
a gust of wind ever the same as one before? Do they travel the world, wherever
a windstorm is called for, or do they stay close and return to the same places?
Only science could prove such a theory, but sometimes our hearts make more
sense than reason. That day, Tabitha knew it was the same wind, for the song in
the branches was exactly identical to that of a day 56 years ago.
Ebony
and Tabitha lay on their backs, staring up at the quivering leaves and the maze
of their veins that the bright sun illuminated. They listened to the music.
Fingers
intertwined, Ebony absentmindedly let his free hand graze over the diamond on
Tabitha’s left. She smiled, and turned her head to meet his eyes. Her beauty
was seen by his eyes, and perceived through his mind, spreading like smoke
through his blood until it settled in his heart, causing it to stutter. His
mind felt thick, his skin burned an embarrassing shade of red.
“My
gem,” he whispered. He couldn’t help but smile at his words.
Tabitha’s
eyes were small- to small to hold all the heavy stories they had lived. And too
often, they could not carry the weight any longer, and they overflowed,
trickling drops of the saddest brown Ebony had ever seen.
Above
her left eye was a thin ribbon of as scar that ran from the side of her head to
the corner of her eye. It only brought pain and excruciating remorse for Ebony
to look at those eyes, for it is said that eyes are our connection to our
pasts. Her past was nothing but undeserved suffering, a Job-like story- one
with an uncontrollable whirlwind of pure evil only the Devil himself could do
so directly and deliberately. And Ebony was too late.
That
was what ran through his mind that night, like a frantic bird captured in a
cage. I’m to late, I’m too late, I’m too
late. It was sheer luck that he happened to see her limp body in the
ravine, just by the dim light of the street lamp. He followed the ambulance to
the hospital and patiently waited hours until could go into the room to see
her. “Love at first sight” did not apply to them. When he saw her for the first
time, bandages covering her head, a brace on her wrist, dark swollen eyes, he
simply saw another human being- one that had been seriously abused and
mistreated.
She
was so quiet at first, only offering a few blunt responses to Ebony’s constant
chatter to fill the awkward silence. He came back to sit by her bedside every
night- first out of civic good will, but then turning into absolute personal
desire- and he began to look forward everyday to their innocent meetings under
the florescent lights of the hospital room.
Every
time Tabitha opened her mouth, which she began to slowly do more, a calloused
layer of her internal world fell away, as well as a bandage, or a shade of fear
that painted her face. Ebony gradually began to uncover her enigmatic being,
though how she ended up in the ravine that night was still a mystery to him,
even after the two weeks he had spent with her.
One
night, they laughed together at some comment now forgotten. Their laughter dyed
down, leaving the hum of the radiator to hang in the silence.
Ebony
could not take the anticipation any longer. He believed if he didn’t ask now,
he never would be able too.
“Why
are you here, Tabitha?”
The
question did not seem to faze her, as if she had known he was going to ask it
all along.
“Why
should I tell you? I hardly know you. You are only a stranger to me.”
“Well,”
Ebony replied with a smirk, “I guess we’ll have to work on that.”
Then,
Tabitha told him her story, as flatly and stoically as humanly possible,
No words had ever hurt Ebony more
in his entire lifetime, never caused such a build up of emotional rage to
strangle with his own hands the man who could have done such a thing, such a heartache
of sorrow for what this girl must live with for the rest of her life,
resentment and omniscient shame.
How was he to respond? No human
words could possibly express his thoughts, no words could possibly take away
her pain and provide the comfort and serenity she needed. So instead, he gently
but undoubtedly leaned across the bed to kiss her.
From that day forth, Tabitha
believed those lips were the work of some divine figure, forever pure and
sacred, crafted perfectly to be in flawless sync with hers. Never did she
really know how many others pairs of lips they had met before they arrived at
hers.
For a summer in college, Ebony had
the privilege to travel to England and shadow art historian, Martin Kemp. Ebony
had recently declared a major in Art History and took his potential career with
great seriousness. For two months, he lived with Martin in his 19th
century mansion, settled in the quiet of country right outside the city. Vines
crawled up the crumbling stonewalls, and the interior was furnished with the
finest British antiques. Accommodating servants were always available to meet
Ebony’s every wish.
The basement was Martin’s
workspace. A door was hidden in the living room, disguised as a bookshelf,
which led to a flight of stairs, and then finally to another door with an alarm
system, and a padlock that only responded to Martin’s thumbprint. He was a
detective historian. Eager collectors and art dealers from all around the world
sent him anonymous paintings they had come across to see if Martin could detect
their original creator.
Their summer project was a 13x9
canvas, with the painting of a young girl’s profile, her skin translucent and
hair tied in a long braid down her back. They called her “La Bella Principessa”-The
Beautiful Princess. Martin strongly believed it could possibly be the work of
Leonardo Divinci himself; an idea which put the entire household in excited
spirits. For hours at a time, Ebony followed Martin’s lead; hunched over a
canvas with a microscope, analyzing brush strokes, paint samples, and hidden
finger prints.
Ebony was a good student and a fast
learner. As long as the sun shone, he eagerly worked in Martin’s footsteps,
doing whatever he could to uncover the great secret of this ancient piece of
art. But he was still a kid- a boy not yet even 20.- young and oblivious to
most of the world. Martin’s home was only a train ride away from the eye of the
pulsing city, and at night, the kid inside Ebony emerged to have some personal
fun and enjoyment.
Every night after a four-course
meal with Martin, Ebony would slip away from the world of Divinci’s princess,
and go to find his own among the neon illuminated side streets of London. His ID (professionally and expensively
copied) was his ticket to endless possibilities after a day of work.
Once Ebony had a few drinks, he
would usually find someone to his liking. Blurred with alcohol, his mind became
dysfunctional, yet his senses carried on, sharper than ever. He would hear the
vibrations of the music, smell the overpowering smoke rising from mirrors, and
sweat that reeked of booze, see the face of his current princess for 20 ₤,
feel the skin and protruding bones, taste the lips so often tasting like an
apple- but too sweet to be genuine, to be the best.
The best apple Ebony had ever tasted
came right from his very own backyard. He was 15, yet till the day he died, his
mouth still help the perfect memory of that piece of fruit, as if he had just
bitten it that very second. The color was the ultimate color of a Gala, a blend
of pale reds and yellows, grown to perfection by his own labor. The skin was
tart between his teeth, but the fruit itself was both crunchy and juicy- a
paradoxical sensation only the very best apple can achieve.
Juice dripped from the corners of his
mouth, and he greedily licked his lips, making sure to savor every drop. He sat
on the lush grass and rested his head against the maturing trunk of the apple
tree. Through the open windows of the house, he could hear the voices inside,
deep in some argument of who-did-what and why-can’t-you-do-this. He tried to
tune out their voices by instead think of sweet taste on his tongue, and of
baseball cards and football games…
There was a football on the kitchen
table. He wasn’t sure why it was there, or who even walked into the kitchen
with it. But he remembered tracing the lace over and over again with his fat,
toddler finger while his mother made lunch. She came over and sat next to him,
placing a plate with a PB&J sandwich on the table. As he hungrily nibbled
at the bread, avoiding the crust, his mother asked,
“Do you want to know a secret?”
Suddenly very curious by such a
suggestion, Ebony nodded enthusiastically, forgetting all about his lunch. His
mother brought a ripe apple and a knife to the table, and cut the apple in
half, making quite a show of it.
“See what is hidden inside? Can you see
the flower in the seeds?”
Ebony smiled in delight, having seemed
to have just discovered one of the greatest mysteries of life itself. Indeed,
the tiny brown spots formed the shape of a flower.
His mother removed one of the seeds,
and pressed it into his palm. Even in comparison to his undeveloped hand, the
seed still appeared amazingly tiny and fragile.
“If this seed is buried in the ground,
someday it will grow into something much bigger and more beautiful for everyone
to see,” she explained.
He could not understand. He could not
see how a wrinkled brown seed could someday be beautiful, and could be seen by
every person if it was under the ground. Even in his hand, it was smaller than
his own thumbnail. Yet still, Ebony had that relying faith a child holds to
their parents, and he somehow believed her word.
His mother took the seed and held it
between her thumb and pointer finger, right at his eye level.
“Like buried treasure, it is most
valuable when it is buried beneath the earth. Do you want to see?”
Ebony still didn’t understand what she
was trying to say. But, he was now very curious, and wanted to experience for
himself what his mother described. So he took her hand and followed her into
the far corner of the backyard, to see what wonder could possibly surface.
2010
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