Lotus Blossoms

“If I were to use a plant to represent you, I would choose the bamboo.”

The two of you were lying on the thatched roof of your house, basking in the sun’s warmth as only children would. But you weren’t children any longer. She raised her hands out in front of her so that they blocked the sunlight from her vision and smiled as you asked why.

“The bamboo represents a perfect gentleman,” she replied simply.

You flushed slightly at the compliment and turned your face up towards the sky, closing your eyes as you savoured the warmth. It was nearing the end of summer and soon you would be back at your school in the city, locked up in those classrooms and dormitories where there was no fresh air to breathe or grassy areas to run around. You hated it, but you had to go.

“A perfect gentleman?” you asked.

“Yes, a perfect gentleman. You have your own strong morals and you stick to them like glue to paper.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Sometimes…”

Her voice drifted off as she closed her eyes as well, drifting off into a contented lull. Come the end of summer, she would be moving in with a relative who lived elsewhere. Neither of you were to be staying here to watch as the leaves turned gold and drifted gently down from their branches, or to help your grandmother rake them up into large piles, only to jump into and scatter them around the yard again.

You took her hand and held it up in the air in front of you. Eyes open, you compared your hands, noting how much smaller hers is and how yours was tanned and hers pale. She pointed out that you had been helping your grandmother in the garden this past month, while she had been at home with her embroidery.

Suddenly, she sat up, dark hair cascading down her back and absorbing the sunlight as she turned her head to look down at you.

“Will you write?”

“As often as I can.”

“Promise?”

“I’ll try.”

She forced a smile as she drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

“That’s so like you,” she mumbled. “You never promise anything.”

Neither of you spoke for a while after that, uncertain of what to do in such an uncomfortable silence. It wasn’t as if it hadn’t happened before. She had had temper tantrums before and would give you the silent treatment until she had gotten over her little fit. And you would be patient, waiting out the tantrum until she came back, all smiles and laughter. The time ranged from several minutes to several weeks.

“I will write,” she said firmly, smile back in place. The storm had blown over and the sun was shining again. “Even if I am busy.”

“I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

She never apologised or asked forgiveness, so you did it for her. You took the blame for her getting upset and you apologised because she didn’t and both of you needed someone to blame.

“That’s all right. But now you have to promise to write to me.”

“Even if I’m busy?”

“Even if you’re busy,” she commanded.

You gave her a small smile of agreement and nodded. It was as good of a promise as you could make, because you both knew that you were not the type to make promises you couldn’t keep. Then a thought struck you as she decided to start making her way back down into the house.

“If I’m bamboo, then what are you?”

Her smile was unlike one you had ever seen before. It reminded you of someone who had a secret that was all their own and they weren’t ever going to tell anyone else.

“A lotus blossom, of course.”

The seasons changed. You found yourself back in school with the other boys, learning to read, write and do sums, all the while dreaming about the thatched roof under the sun and many lazy days spent lying there. But that roof and those lazy days were far behind and there was a future ahead, waiting.

You grandmother wrote you letters sometimes and sent you little packages and cards on special occasions. You replied to them, glad to have some distraction from the somewhat dull and repetitive routines of school life. But no matter how patient you were, how long you waited, she never wrote.

School came and went, but still there was no letter. There was a reason why you never promised anything you weren’t at least one thousand percent sure you could keep. You knew the bitter taste of disappointment and you didn’t want others to taste it too.

Life went on, but you never went back to the country, to the sunbathed roof or to those carefree, childhood days. You tried to convince yourself that it was because you were too busy with your new job in the city to go back, but you knew, deep down, that it was because you didn’t want to go back and not see her.

Your grandmother had written telling you of the permanent move to the relative’s. The little house down the lane had been sold and it was obvious that she wasn’t going to go back. And with this news, you decided that you weren’t going back either.

So as childhood gave way to adulthood, you immersed yourself in work and in your new life. Sometimes you made room for others in your busy schedule, but otherwise you kept to yourself. They wondered why no one ever held your interest for very long, especially the women, but you never told them why. You hoped to outrun your past and forget that there was ever a thatched roof, or long waves of dark hair that caught the sunlight as a gentle voice told you that the plant that best represented you was the bamboo. And yet you kept the painting of a lotus blossom in your room, above your desk, so you could constantly look and contemplate what it represented.

But you didn’t run fast enough after all. As you were walking home from your job late one evening, the past finally caught up. She was walking down the street towards you, older, maturer and definitely prettier than you’d ever seen her. But that was not all that had changed. You realised your place by her side had been replaced by another’s.

“If I’m bamboo, then what are you?”

“A lotus blossom, of course.”

You had done a little research on flower symbolism in your spare time. That was how you knew to send a painting of wisterias to your grandmother when she was ill, to offer her long life and health and placed white roses by your parents’ graves to mark their silence. And when you found out what a lotus blossom represented, you laughed to yourself, thinking that the lotus was not the wisest choice to represent her.

The lotus blossom represents estranged love, a love not returned or the illusion of love where none is present.

You were still the bamboo, the perfect gentleman with strong morals and beliefs. And, as you passed without acknowledging each other on the street that day, he realised that she was still the lotus blossom towards you, letting you love her, but not loving you in return.

That night, you went home and took down the painting of the lotus blossoms.