short story: my parents my children

 

 

 

 

 

                                                       I edge right up close to window, pressing my nose against it.  My breath fogging the glass. I cannot go on in, all my loves on the other side. I walk past.

This time the shop window is decorated with leaves, gold, yellow. the swinging door lets out a warm cinnamon fragrance, heavy with vanilla. I am engulfed but the smell leaves too soon. I walk away.

It is wintertime and the shop window is frosty, lined with snowflakes, soon fairy lights, sooner still, a Christmas tree. I spot them this time, all my loves sitting on one table.

All my loves, in winter coats. Of course he would wear his hiking boots. And look him there, with his linen blazer. All their necks tanned red and brown from travel. I don’t see their eyes, but I remember them. Blue, cat like. Brown, like a horse.

“you’re not supposed to be here” The patron at the door says.

I walk away.

 

It is spring, a while since I have circled back. They are in, I see them immediately. Left hand. Both with Plain Gold Rings. My loves are huddled with two other men and a woman I have never seen before. Hunching over the table as if discussing war plans. Esoteric knowledge. They do not notice me. I walk away.

Why can’t I go on in? I ask the patron at the door.

It isn’t your time, girl. Wait outside and yearn.

 

So I yearn. I watch them, every evening now, walking slowly past the shop, watching them laughing, or drinking tea. The conversations that I am not privy to. I yearn for them, for the inside of the shop. Warm and lamp lit. In the evening, every cup and saucer casts a shadow, and my loves look different too. Their faces longer, caricatures compared to daylight.

I walk away.

At home, I fantasise what I would do when I am allowed in. I would sit amongst them, happy as a camper. Listening to them, their wise and kind speech. Would they know I am there? Would they embrace me? Treat me as family? I return that evening to see If I am allowed in.

 

Not yet. Keep yearning.

 

I walk away, defeated. As the days turn into months, my patience wears thin. I walk past the shop in the morning and start pounding at the glass.

 

“Hey, let me in!”

My loves all on one table turn to look at me, their expressions confused and surprised. Do they recognise me? The patron pops his head out of the door and tells me to get lost.

 

I walk away, my tears puddle. I lick them away as they come down with a speed. Ah typical huh, my loves all there, taunting, talking. Yet I am not allowed in.

I don’t visit for the next 3 months.

 

When I do, it is summer. The shop window is lined with blooming flowers and cartoon ice cream stickers. I take a quick glance in, they are all there. The table looks full, there are children climbing on their knees and there are 3 beautiful women sitting with my loves too.

These are not my loves at all. They have loves that are long and branching like vines, children, wives.

 I start to ache, a new ache, profound and devastating. I start to weep at the window. My loves are not my loves at all.

The children bounce around with cake crumbs in their mouths, the men, no, the fathers laugh and look longingly at their wives. The wives talking fast, sipping tea cooing over their children. I watch and weep. I weep into my hands, the tears thick and fast it seems like rain. I choke on my tears, filling my open mouth, the salt coating my tongue.

The patron sticks his head out.

“come in”

For a second, stunned.

 I wipe my hands, face, and mouth. I go in, following the patron. Rather than seating me with my loves, the patron takes me into the shady corner. Two children are seated with dry, sandy skin. A boy and a girl, with large fearful eyes. Both avoiding my gaze. Their clothes were in a neglected state, smudged and stained. Holes and rips. Their grubby hands nervously fiddling with the napkins.

“here are your loves” the patron motions me to sit and then walks away.

 

My loves? These two otherworldly children probably plucked from a Romanian orphanage. These are not my loves, I don’t know them. I look at the young girl, 7. Her eyes were a striking hazel green, lined with lashes. Her nose rounded at the tip, she resembled me. Her hair a fair brunette.

“Why are you scared?”  I took her small fair hand in mine.

She looked at me and without talking I knew. This is my mother and father. They were waiting for me, both 7 years old. Both frightened. I take the little boy’s hand, his eyes brimming with tears. I hold their hands in mine.

 I bow my head and begin to cry. I weep hard and for a long time. Silently, their warmth becomes my warmth and vice versa. These are my loves, the hardest children to love because they are my parents. They have been alone but here, I hold them. I wrap my arms around them and pull them in close. These two children are my greatest teachers. I whisper to them that I am here for them, that I love them for they gave me the gift of life. I am sorry for the war.

 

I live a happy life now with my loves, my two children/parents.

 I plait my mother’s hair slowly, weaving grace and kindness. I play cricket outside with my dad, he is good at sport. Curiously they age backwards. I realised this on their birthdays. They are both 6 now. My mother sucks her thumb, my father has night terrors. We draw comics at the kitchen table, after dinner. They are strange yet funny, their wobbly figures and trees make me laugh. They discuss the characters dialogue while I do the dishes. These are my loves, my father’s teeth begin to fall next autumn. My mother’s teeth falls soon after. Nothing grows back in its place, their smile full of gaps.

I replace their food with mushy counterparts. Time feels as if it is running out. I buy larger blocks of Lego, then soon enough the house needs baby proofing. Both mother and father are adorable at 2, babbling and cooing happily. I take them to the London parks, in a two-seater pram.

“Gosh they look just like you!” strangers comment when I take them out. If only they knew.

I warm their bottles and check the milk temperature with my little pinkie. They go on shrinking, smaller and plumper, their skin draws in and wraps around them. I know I have to say goodbye soon, they cry when they want their nappies changed and coo happily when I make silly faces. They wave their fat baby arms, their hair much shorter and thinner. Softer, like silk thread. My father as a baby was chubby, kicking and fussing all the time. Wanting to be held. My mother was the curious silent type, looking up at me with wide eyes, her mouth a gentle ‘o’.

 

I knew it was soon, that they had to leave when they started to sleep all the time. They refused everything but warm milk and as they shrunk, they grew wrinklier, their eyes slowly shutting as they days went by. In the final three days, they didn’t wake up at all. I looked down upon them, fragile little artworks, tiny squares for fingernails. every detail a delicate version of the one past, their skin porcelain and wheat coloured, translucent in their newness.  Their noses shrunk down to mere buttons.

I knew it was the final night. I go into their bedroom, peek over their cots, and start to weep when I see it empty. Leaving behind blankets and baby rompers, still warm.

Wailing for my loss, my loves, my mother and father, my babies, my children. On my knees I weep, my head to the ground, I weep further. All at once, a flash of bright light floods the room, pure white.

 

Nothing was said but the light eases my crying, my yearning. A gift I was given.