Under the Umbrella
It is low tide at the beach. Some way in, where even the waves at high tide cannot reach, stands a small house with polished pine walls, large, airy windows with oak shutters, and a sort of back porch that opens out to the beach. An old, weather-beaten rocking chair completes the picture. The place has a sort of resort feel to it, like a small holiday place that someone has built specially for his or her own entertainment during summer holidays.
This is very much untrue- people live there all year round. There used to be three people living inside-me, my father, and my mother. I was, and still am, an only child, but I was never alone. My parents were like the siblings I never had. They taught me everything I needed to know-all the subjects that would have been taught in a school had I gone to one. I could confide in them; they seemed to understand all of my trifles and troubles, and could make my frown change to that of a smile. My parents were educators, my friends, and my companions.
I was never scolded or spoken harshly to. I did not want for anything, for I had everything that I desired: love, care, and a place I could call my home. Even so, I believe I was not a spoilt child. If only my childhood had lasted forever, and I could have continued my existence as if in a perfect fairytale. And we lived happily ever after.
But forever does not happen often, and in my case it did not. When I was about nine, my world shattered like only a glass dropped on the floor could: into a million or more pieces, impossible to put back together again. My mother developed throat cancer. At first we thought of it as a harmless little coughing spell that would pass; previously all other illnesses had passed without the need of professional medical attention. By the time we realized the disease for what it was, it was too late, and even the men of medicine at the most advanced hospital could not save her. My mother depended on machines right till the very end; to this very day I can still remember the sight of so many tubes attached to her arms and hands. I remember that on my first visit to the hospital, I had not wanted to let go of my father's hand, scared of the monster with pallid skin, sunken cheeks, and the seemingly hundreds of tubes hooked into its body; the monster that I had later recognized as my mother. And the three, became two…
I remember that I cried and that I was not afraid to let the tears fall. Every day I cried until I had no tears left and my eyes were dry, puffy, and red. I cried for the loss of a parent, and a dear friend, but each day I cried that bit more for the loss of the other parent as my friend. My father was probably more shocked by my mother's death than I was. Each day he remained locked in his rooms, and only ever came out to cook simple meals for the both of us.
Even our meals were spent in silence, which was not companionable but tense. It was a poor replacement for the lively chatter of the past, and some days I remained at the table long after my father had gone, picking at my food and mourning the passing of yet another remainder of my childhood.
I never even received a goodnight greeting or a kiss from him, as it was not automatically forthcoming and I did not dare intrude on his privacy or his rooms to request it. Gradually, the distance between my father and myself grew, until I thought of him only as a parental figure instead of the friend I once had.
Even on my death anniversary ritual to honour Mom he never came. He always stayed in his room, even when I called him. I tried the first few years, and then I gave up on him. Often after putting my offering onto her grave I would stand there, listening to the rippling waves or sometimes silence, transfixed at the beauty and calm there, on the beach. I would be pulled out of my trance, when my father took hold of my elbow to lead me back to the house. He always had a faded blue umbrella under his arm, and on occasion used it: our beach was prone to sudden storms and rain.
Days became weeks, weeks became months, months became years… and I had pushed everything into a dark, dusty corner of my mind, and was practiced at purposely not managing to find it when I wanted to.
Even on my death anniversary
Seven years had passed, and I was now approaching my seventeenth birthday when I made my ritual of bringing a single white rose to put on Mother's grave, on the beach. It was high tide then, and from the window I saw the waves lap up onto the shore like a thirsty dog panting. It didn't particularly matter that the burial spot we had chosen was where the waves would get to it; after all, she had liked constant change when she had been alive.
I turned from the window and by reflex reached to pick one of the two white flowers inside their tall glass jar that always stood as the centerpiece of the table. But it wasn't there. Puzzled, I looked out the window, and my breath caught in my throat as I saw a slightly bent figure on one knee at the burial spot. From far, I could see him place something on the sand, and then the waves washed up and carried a white speck away into the choppy sea, quickly disappearing beneath the waves.
Taking the last rose by its stem, I walked out of the door and took the umbrella that Dad always brought me home with. On the beach, I came up softly behind my father and placed my rose on the sand, watching as it got tossed away by the water. We both watched it for a long time, before he broke the silence by looking at me.
"Liz," he said, softly in his soft whisper of a voice. It hardly carried over the sound of the waves, but I nodded in response and he continued, "I'm sorry… it was just so hard to let it go, and for so long… I'm-" and I knew he was going to apologize but I didn't want him to.
No, I just smiled at him, and reassured him that it was okay and that I understood perfectly. He took my elbow, as always, and smiled down at me before walking me back to our house. Our house now, not the house but our house. As we took coordinated steps, my hand around his waist, a cold raindrop fell on my hair and dripped down my cheek, and was then followed by its friends, falling faster and faster. I whipped up the umbrella with a practiced motion and held it over our heads, and just like that, sheltered from the rain and cold and wet, we walked home.
A/N: for my english midyear exam last year (2005). i received 27/30 for this one, but the one i put up here has been edited and fleshed out more completely. To read my other story associated with rain and storms, go to my page or search for: Summer Storms And Perhaps Tears At The Post Office. r/r! thanks, -technicoloured.