Friday 22 July 2011

Touch

The following short story has been published in Chicken Soup for the Soul - Family Caregivers (2012)

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Touch

We all yearn to return to those days when we were completely taken care of --
unconditional love, unconditional attention.
~Mitch Albom, Tuesdays with Morrie

It was a gloriously sunny Sunday morning. Even the thick drapes in my bedroom couldn’t completely shut out those beautiful golden rays. I lay in bed, reminiscing as I did on most occasions when I had the luxury of a lie-in. On this lazy morning, my mind drifted randomly to a night more than two decades ago.

There were always certain memories from my childhood that resurfaced more often than others. That night in particular would replay itself in my mind quite often. I remember pulling the soft white pillow over my ears and sobbing hysterically as I lay in my bed, wishing that the shouting would stop. It was like that most nights. They would be downstairs in the living room. He would be yelling at her, and she would be crying silently as he did. I couldn’t understand why he was so horrid to my mother. She was such a gentle soul.

I remember my bedroom door suddenly being swept open, and my brother barging in. He flipped on the light switch and stormed over to my bed, looking enraged. I had stopped sobbing and was trembling in fear. At seventeen years, my brother was just as scary to me as my father was at that point. “Get out of bed,” he said in a gruff voice. He grabbed my hand, roughly pulling me out of bed. I started to sob again as he dragged me unwillingly down the stairs and toward the shouting. I remember my father whirling around in mid-sentence as he heard my whimpering sounds coming from behind him. My brother then shoved me in front of my father and yelled, “Look at what you’re doing to your daughter!”

I guess as I grew older, I forgot what happened after that. Maybe things got better. Maybe worse. I couldn’t remember feeling hatred for my father. Perhaps I stopped hating him after a while. Or perhaps I never did quite hate him. He was, after all, my father. In the past eight years, he suffered two debilitating strokes and was reduced from the alpha male he once was to a meek man with an almost childlike disposition. The roles between us switched. I was now the caregiver. The breadwinner of the family. My father had been emasculated.

I yawned and stretched my arms as I sat up in my bed. I reached over and pulled a book that I had been reading the night before off the nightstand. It was a book by Mitch Albom called Tuesdays with Morrie and had been highly recommended by many friends. I opened the book to where my bookmark lay and began to read. A couple of pages later, I stopped and went back a page to re-read what I had just read.

Mitch, the author, was talking to Morrie about how he managed to stay positive in spite of having lost his independence and needing a nurse to bathe him, lift him and wipe his behind. Morrie’s response was that, strangely enough, he had begun to enjoy his dependency. He said it was like going back to being a child again. I read that section over and over again as the tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I had hugged my father. Truth be told, I didn’t enjoy being too close to him. He always smelt like medicine and something that reminded me of a nursing home for the elderly. It made me uncomfortable.

I got out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. As I washed my face and brushed my teeth, I thought about this some more. My father and I had never been that affectionate in the past either. He had been revered and feared before his present condition. What was I to do? Completely shock him with an embrace out of the blue? What would he think? How weird would it feel for me? Did I really even care enough to try it?

I could hear my mother bustling about in the kitchen as I walked toward the living room, where I knew my father would be watching TV. Sure enough, there he was -- in his comfy single-seater couch with the clicker in his hand, staring blankly at the moving images on the screen before him. He barely looked up at me as I walked into the room and mumbled good morning. I settled onto the loveseat at the far end of the living room, watching my father’s lack of response to the comedic actions of the characters in the sitcom.

Suddenly, I felt a surge of emotion run through my body as I stood up and walked slowly over to my father. He continued to look straight ahead at the TV screen, seemingly oblivious to my movement. I knelt down beside his couch, with my arms resting on the cushioned right arm of the sofa, and softly rested my head on his shoulder, my hair nestled in his neck. What was probably seconds felt like an eternity, but then I lifted my arm and placed it over his other shoulder and held him as tightly as I could. If I had had any doubt in my mind about whether I loved my father, they were obliterated in that moment -- when I felt his body trembling under my head as he began to sob uncontrollably.

Monday 4 July 2011

Kitty Cat

Tanya wore her hair in two pig-tails tied with pretty red ribbons. Her once shiny Mary Jane black shoes were now covered in dirt and her white, knee-length socks had streaks of brown on them too. The bottom of her red and white plaid pinafore touched the wet earth beneath her as she couched on the grass, intently watching a pretty red ladybird as it crawled up a blade of grass. She was a charming little child with a mind as curious as that of most children her age. She was fascinated by nature and all living creatures, often wandering off into the garden outside her home to observe the little insects that roamed freely around the plants.
Without warning, the ladybird suddenly spread its wings and flew off. A little startled, Tanya stood up and looked around to see if she could spot the insect again. This time, however, she spotted a beautiful butterfly fluttering its wings lightly as it flew over the lawn. With a look of glee on her face, Tanya skipped merrily alongside it, her little pig-tails swinging from side to side as she did. Her mother watched from inside the house, through the kitchen window, smiling fondly at her daughter.
The garden stretched from the driveway leading up to the house, all the way to the stone brick walls at the periphery of the compound. Unlike most homes in the area, these walls did not have electric wiring running over them to deter burglars. Instead, there were short iron rods with sharp arrow-like tips placed vertically at regular intervals on top of the walls all around the boundary. Close to one edge of the garden, the walls gave way to a sturdy wrought iron gate which was always manned by a surly-looking guard who watched with disdain as Tanya played in the garden.
Along one edge of the garden, close to a mango tree that stood by the wall, lay a small, crudely-constructed shallow pond with oddly shaped rocks that formed its border. In the centre of the pond, a birdbath had been erected that attracted different bird species from time to time. Tanya moved slowly towards the pond, careful not to scare away the beautiful little birds that had gathered at the moss-covered birdbath. She stopped a few feet from the pond and relished in the sight of the birds dipping their beaks into the water, ruffling their feathers and twittering away gaily.

A rapid movement in the rose bush close to the pond drew Tanya’s attention away from the birds. She watched the bush as the leaves rustled and a couple of loose pink petals fell off the flowers and onto the grass. Then, from in-between the branches, a most adorable little tawny kitten poked its face out. Tanya squealed in delight, clapping her tiny hands together. The playful kitten frolicked about the rose bush before its eyes settled on all the activity going on in the birdbath, a few feet from the rose bush. It then pranced forward and clambered up the mango tree whose branches extended over the pond, brushing against the boundary wall.

Tanya, enthralled by this display of playfulness, watched in glee as the kitten settled on top of the wall, wiggled its little behind and hunkered down, its wide eyes fixated on the birds. The birds splashed away in the birdbath, unawares.  
Suddenly a gruff voice sounded behind Tanya. She looked over just in time to see the surly guard raise his arm and hurl a small rock towards the kitten who sat perched atop the wall between the iron spikes. Tanya watched in alarm as the kitten jumped up in fright to avoid the hurtling stone.
Tanya let out a blood curdling scream and began to wail as her mother rushed outside to her and enveloped her in an embrace. She lifted Tanya into her arms and stroked her hair, trying to comfort her daughter as she walked briskly back to the house. Tanya, still howling, watched blurrily over her mother’s shoulder in utter horror as the guard picked up a stick, smirking as he tried to lift the kitten’s bloody carcass off the iron spike that had speared its body as it had landed…