As I stood in the shallow pool of water, freeze-framed images of us dancing, laughing and splashing water like children played consistently in my minds eye.
Brookes’ happy laughter echoed with delight in my ears. This little gem of a place brought out that childish joy in her that made my heart bloom when I watched her face radiate and her cheeks pinken with pleasure.
I felt her presence, as real and as solid as if she stood beside me. Out of habit, I stretched out a hand to grasp hers, but the emptiness and lack of her warm palm hit me hard.
Has it only been six weeks? Six weeks sounds so short, yet it felt like an eternity. An eternity of hellish existence. Those dreaded words still rang in my heart and I still felt as shell-shocked as I had felt in the Oncologists office. Words like, ‘biopsy, chemotherapy, aggressive, incurable Cancer, metastasized’ and the worst of all ‘few weeks left’…changed our lives so drastically.
I stood there and in that shallow pool of water ‘the secret brook that Brooke loved’ for the first time, I allowed the hot tears to flow freely. I had had to stay strong and had not allowed her to see me cry.
The sparse cupboard with the solitary pack of Batchelor soup and canned beans stared back at him as if in mockery. His posh apartment was a sorry mess. Take out boxes and dirty mugs littered the kitchen and George wondered when his life had become so empty.
He was fatigued from months of insufficient sleep and taking work home; the promotion came with more responsibilities than anticipated. He was tired of eating out of paper boxes, he missed having a decent relationship with anyone and would have given a tooth for some helping of the curry flavourful dish that floated down the corridor from his married neighbours’ apartment; his tummy grumbled at the thought.
The ping of the microwave interrupted his thoughts and the cup of overflowing soup that looked more like lava made him swear. With a sigh of resignation, he picked up the phone to call Chinatown. The hum of voices and laughter from next door sharply reminded him that a robust bank balance did not make up for loneliness.
One of the voluntary days spent teaching children etiquette at a school in Lagos
Except where parents are as mean as rattle snakes, during their formative years, most children look up to their parents as their heroes or role models without clay feet and worthy of emulating.
They soak in mannerisms, attitudes, lifestyle and a host of character moulding outlooks from those who have been placed in positions of authority as their custodians. This serves as a reminder that it is very needful to exercise diligent caution in writing positively all over the clean slate of life of these young ones whom we are responsible for.
Recently, I find myself gravitating towards a lot of things that my parents used to do and those that they inculcated in me in years that I hardly knew anything.
I catch myself these days, repeating certain statements that my mother makes.
The wise adages and idioms which laced my fathers enunciation’s line my speech and thoughts every other day.
Asides from working for the University until they both retired, they both dabbled into so many other things such as side businesses, farming, arts and craft etc. and I can proudly say that maybe I did inherit some art skills and entrepreneurial abilities from them.
Though it seems I haven’t been a successful green-fingers like my dad. I think my lack of success has been out of sheer laziness. Plants thrived under dad’s fingers, but in my own case, I have been more inclined in putting in the plant into the soil, watering and whispering to it a few times, then with a pat on the head, I stroll along, expecting the sapling to know what to do and to thrive. Of course the poor young sapling either strives to thrive or dies trying
Career wise, I did dabble into working in a school environment for a while but it didn’t hold my interest for too long. I reverted to volunteering my time to school work.
My mother told us a lot of stories when we were growing up and since we have long flown the coop, she currently enjoys the pleasure of volunteering her story moulding services regularly to the children’s church and it is always impressive to see how these children hang on to her and adore her. They call her mummy ever so often that I even feel twinges of jealousy occasionally.
I think I must have acquired storytelling genes from her.
I cannot recollect making conscious decisions to follow in their footsteps, but I catch myself sliding in directions that they have taken and it does make me ponder for a moment….maybe, I am becoming my parents. Who knows, I may still become a plant-whisperer as the days go by. Not a bad feeling at all is it? 🙂
In response to NaBloPoMo prompt – Wednesday, November 4
When you were a kid, did you want to have the same job or a different job than your parents when you grew up?
a cooking pot and twisted tales 