Flash Fiction: Ginger Tea
How could she leave this house when it held so many memories for her?
She didn’t want to go. She really did not want to go. She looked around the house. Her house. The home she and her husband had made. Created and nurtured by their family for the past thirty-five years with so much love and dedication. Each and every corner spoke a story. It spoke of the lives that breathed. The umpteen photographs on the walls chronicled the growth and saga of her family. Like screenshots of a movie.
There was so much this house knew. So much it had seen. Witnessed many joys and milestones and guarded many secrets in its bosom. Its cavernous capacity to hold . . . and hold on and still prevail. Sometimes she felt it had a life of its own. When all was quiet, she could feel its breath, its sighs and gurgles, and felt one with its pulse throbbing. She felt it age with her, the same groans and creaks in both their joints and entrails. She could correlate the peeling paint with her crinkled wrinkles. Both revealing their age and adding on a charm in its deterioration. At least that’s what she hoped.
She walked slowly, savoring each step. Walked into rooms, hearts. She could hear the echoes of laughter and sobs simultaneously in the hallways. The pitter-patter of baby steps, and the thuds and thumps of teens. The air resonated with the tinkles of dancing bells, her soothing hymns, and the fervor of rock music. Her heart twisted so hard she felt it would implode. Oh, these damn memories! Tears stung her eyes.
She walked into the smallest room which used to be the baby room for each of her three children and then the grandchildren. She could smell the sweet smell of their baby powder and curdled milk. She smiled and wrinkled her nose with nostalgia. She sat on the small bed, feeling the worn-out rug under her feet, inhaled the scents of her babies and recalled the feel of their soft skin, and wished she could bottle it all up and take it with her.
She heard a chair creek and followed the sound to her bedroom. Her husband sat on his rocking chair with his hands folded on his soft belly. He too looked sad. She could feel his pain. He sat gazing at the bed with a blank look. A single tear trailed his weathered face dancing between his wrinkles and stubble. Wrinkles definitely looked more charming on him than on her. She was always so anxious about her aging. Sixty-two! But the vanity was still there.
She sat on the bed facing him. “I know it’s difficult my darling . . . we just have to let it go,” she said, trying to give him some comfort.
He looked up and stared dolefully with misty eyes. They had shared a lifetime together with many ups and downs in this little house. They always had a quiet understanding and didn’t need many words between them. More silent tears streamed down his face. She smiled wistfully and patted his hands, and stood up. She had more rooms to explore, more memories to amass and hold. She walked into her temple room. Felt the warm aura of the Gods emanating within. What would become of this room? Her refuge when things went awry and heaven when she was happy. Her daily regimen to keep her steady. It was this sanctuary where she poured out her heart, shed tears of grief and joy, vented her troubles. The lingering fragrance of the sandalwood incense enveloped her and calmed her.
One by one she went into each child’s room. Very little had changed in them over the years. From stuffed toys to posters to wedding pictures. She saw it all in slow motion like those in old silent projector films.
There was the photograph of her cute little Myra on her first day of kindergarten with her pigtails and pink ribbons next to one of her graduation in her black cap and gown, and then another in her red wedding gown with her handsome husband. Oh, my goodness, time really flew by! She should have hugged them more.
She walked into her son’s room. It was neat with the same array of pictures depicting the milestones. She could still smell the hint of acrid cigarette smoke. She smiled recalling how, as a teen, he would try to camouflage the odors by burning incense sticks. He was the rebellious one. Hard to imagine the then scrawny little brat as the now successful dentist with two children. She had been so worried about him. But he turned out all right. She was sure this room was witness to many a teenage angsts and trysts.
She saved the kitchen for the last. The soul of her home. So many memorable meals! This kitchen had been her haven. She wondered if the walls would miss her cooking aromas. She recalled ruefully how she had upgraded her kitchen just a few years ago. Spent countless hours poring over designs and materials, and an arm and a leg to build her perfect sanctum. All for what? she thought exasperatedly! She wouldn’t be able to enjoy it anymore. Her shiny state-of-the-art stainless steel cooking range would wonder why there wasn’t her aromatic ginger tea brewing anymore. She ran her fingers over the cold granite counter. This massive granite island with its multifarious streaks and lodes and flecks of gold was her pride. She stroked its cold veins with misgiving. Surely it would miss her diligent massages when she lovingly scrubbed it clean every night. No one would be able to bring it to life like her.
She heard her daughter softly call out “mom” and sighed. Her shoulders drooped. It was time to go. She dejectedly trudged towards the living room where all her family had gathered. They sat around her body and wept. She wished she could console them. She could barely console herself. She felt tears flow.
She really, really did not want to go.
Sonia Handa, whose work has appeared on platforms like medium.com and allpoetry.com, is putting together a collection of short stories.
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