Lost Light

Little trickles of water gently slide their way down my umbrella. I can hear the soft taps of droplets patter above my head. I walk cautiously letting my thongs soak up the summer rain and squelch through the dark and empty streets. Dim streetlights guide me through the darkness, which lights a path to lead me home. My arms feel stiff from the silence which surrounds me.

I pull my phone out and dial Mum’s number while waiting in the sticky air. I Wait for her to pick up, but she doesn’t. Obviously it is too early in the morning to get out of bed and drive her daughter back home. So I take tiny steps and decide to walk home.

Deep breaths of warm and damp bits of air fill my lungs. When I was younger, taking deep breaths use to calm me down, but now it doesn’t seem to have the same effect. Feeling scared, I take a peek at the early morning sky which pours with skinny droplets of rain and see the moon’s meek rays trying to spill its beams through the clouds.

Thinking for a second, my gaze, still starring at the light, reminds me of Mum. She tries to shine through the dark but clouds stop her from glowing. When I first got my job, I told her all about it. She was pleased but something in her old, grey eyes said something to me like, haven’t I been working hard enough to support the both of us? I guess she was a bit disappointed in herself or maybe she just missed Dad.

I remember the exact words she said with dull eyes. Eyes which looked like grey skies and skies which clouded up the light that was right in front of her.

‘Hazel… That’s, that’s great….’ Although she did sound a bit disappointed. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit too early in the morning? I thought I was already working hard enough for both of us, or is it not enough?’

‘Mum, you and I both know that you can’t do this alone.’

Her shoulders collapsed and started crying. Little rivulets of water ran down her cheeks, just like the way the rain ran down my umbrella. I gave her a big hug and tried to cheer her up.

I remembered I felt guilty right then and there, I didn’t mean to hurt her.

My thoughts trail off to Dad. How his last words were, ‘Sorry….’ Mum was sitting on the hospital bed crying because she knew he was gone. I guess Dad felt guilty for not taking care for himself. He was always out drinking. I remember sitting motionless on his hospital bed and I was too stiff to feel my arms, while he clenched his face with vehement sobs that choked his throat. His face was crumpled among the pillows and bed sheets. There were no signs of joy or happiness but just the sight of a man choking as if dying in his regretted thoughts. To me, he never was gone. He is always the person in my room reading fairy-tales to me before bedtime with the lamp light burning deep orange, or combing my hair when the birds sang their morning calls. 

My mum and I were informed of the bad news a day before they took him off the waiting list. As if Dad had no significance to me or Mum, ‘Sorry Ms… errr… Bunting, but I have some bad news to tell you. Your husband cannot wait any longer for a liver transplant.’ It was this sentence that grappled Mum to an arrest. She did not move or twitch but only stared at the fridge magnets plotted along together in an innocent row, ‘I’m sorry Ms,’ The doctor continued, ‘but he doesn't have long to live.’ Mum looked blankly once again at the magnets, as if they knew how to respond to this doctor who seemed to have told this news to many strangers, many times before. 

Mum’s eyes grew greyer and greyer from that day, and I saw how much pain she kept inside her and was afraid to let it out.

The rain softly taps on my umbrella, and now it begins to stop. Though the sky is still merely dark, I can see that I am home. My thongs leak drips of water as I slowly squelch my way to the front door.

But something is in my way. I suddenly hear a huge clank which smashes against the concrete, unwanted thoughts come rummaging through my sanity. Shock waves vibrate through me, creating a shriek as if someone’s spirit had been broken….. And it was. In front of me is a grassy green pot, all shattered into three chunky pieces. Soil spills onto the pavement along with vibrant colours of flowers which slowly leak out.

Dad’s passion lay shattered on the pavement. I thought about the countless times he had spent gardening and watering it. If he wasn’t at the pub, he would’ve been working on his plants and taking care of his garden. All of it lay broken because of me.

The door rattled open and suddenly I turn to see Mum. Her eyes shoot open while her hands whip the air, ‘What the hell is going on?'

Birds chirp in replace to my response. I look away into the horizon where tinges of pink seep through the sky. A thousand thoughts rush past me in a split second. Flustered on what to say I splutter,

‘I didn’t kick it on purpose! I didn’t see it, I swear.’ My voice trails off into a calmer tone, ’It was all dark and everything…’ Unfortunately, this doesn’t make Mum feel any better. By me spluttering this sentence, it only brings more shame to myself. I look down with nothing but disgrace and stare at the fragments of I don’t know what anymore.

Mum doesn’t say a word. All I can hear are her tears that thump onto the porch. Soon some of my own tiny tears start sliding down my cheek as I hear Mum calmly shut the door to leave me stranded once again. I stare at the shattered pile of Dad’s passion, while tears keep streaming down my face. Feeling guilty and disrespectful of his work, I stand there motionless, too afraid of my movement.

The day Dad planted these was an autumn morning. He chose his favourite colours orange, red and white. It was his 49th birthday and thought it was good luck to plant orchids on birthdays. He told me, ‘Hazel my dear, if you ever feel like you need some luck just whisper your hopes to these orchids.’ He said, while cradling soil in his hands. His smile had a touch of sincerity as he closed his lips, ‘Because they can grow and flourish through seasons with you. They can listen when nobody else does.’ I guess Dad always felt that way with plants. I would always hear him talking to them about his rotten childhood. How he never had parents that ever loved him.

I stand on the porch sobbing. Then footsteps came trudging towards the door. I take a huge breath of morning air and shut my eyes tight. Standing in front of me is Mum with her clear eyes eager to clear away the mess. The eyes which are staring back at me looked a little clearer than grey. She holds a dust pan and a pale yellow gardening pot. Her arms open wide to give me a huge embrace. The hugest one I’ve had since that day in the hospital. Then she lets go and with a little smile she starts clearing away the three big chunks of grassy green clay which lay lifelessly on the concrete.

Her elderly hands gently place the soil in the new yellow pot. We start rebuilding Dad’s passion, replanting the vivid flowers that once bloomed because of Dad’s joy, while we watch the sun slowly soak up the deep morning sky. I hear faint bird calls in the distance, as if they can feel it is the beginning of something new. With hazel eyes, Mum stars at me and says, ‘I miss him heaps.’

That’s when I see her beams of light starting to seep past the darkness and I think,’ There’s my mum.’ I smile at her as my hands sink in the last of the soil and pat it back with the flowers, ‘We all miss him,’ I say in a gentle whisper.

Mum smiles like the way she always did when Dad was around, but just looking at her now seemed to have pushed me further back into my childhood. Of how she used to read to me with my nightlight burning deep orange and how she combed my hair when the birds sang their morning calls.

When we finished replanting the mess of Dad’s spirit, there were just the sound of bird’s chattering, and clouds like fairy-floss swirling in the sky. Mum reaches for my hand to hold it tightly and I squeeze her hand back to let her know that I’m always there for her.