I have a suitcase in my hand. It is big with flower patterns on its soft fabric. It was given to me that day when I was only seven. I had packed my seven years in my suitcase then. I have packed 18 years of living, loathing and a lot of fear in it now.
I remember our garden from back then was dotted once, twice, a million times; little red dots that filled the air with their sweet smell.
We would run around singing silly songs and picking the wild flowers. Then we would bring them to our mother who would put them in a jam jar on the window sill. They would wither and die by the next day but it didn’t matter to us because there was an infinite supply of the poppies and we would just pick more the next day.
My mother would bake. She would bake cakes and cookies and make sweet lemonade that had such a taste that would stay in my mouth all day.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes I can almost touch the lemonade pitcher, cracked and overused, on the chipped table with a plate of oatmeal cookies by its side, the jam jar on the window sill, the sunlight seeping through the roughly nailed, splintery boards covering up our windows. I see my mother in the mirror crying on her mattress.
The mirror had paint on the sides. Someone had done a hasty paint job like they had something better to be doing instead of covering our precious four walls, like we weren’t worth their time. Green, the colour of the lead paint on our walls. Green always reminds me of . . . I don’t think about the colour green anymore.
In the springtime we would tie a frayed string between the tree and a hook. My mother would hang our clothes on the line. We would give her our wet clothes and she would hold up each corner and secure them with wooden pegs, her dark brown hair swaying in the breeze.
When the clothes were dry, she would fold each shirt carefully into the basket. In springtime, my mother would let us sing along to her songs.
I remember that summer. We would wake up early just so that we could swing on the used tire tied to the tree for even a second longer and when the sun fell from its proud place in the sky, we would run back home feeling sad we couldn’t swing once more.
The summer breeze carried the smells of the wild flowers. My mother would take out her guitar and sing songs she would make up as we drifted to sleep. We slept in the same room. We used one blanket. The blanket was once blue, I used to think, I liked that, blue, the colour of the home of the birds.
That summer, I had a yo-yo I found. It was painted a candy apple red with a swirl in a honey spiralling out from the centre. I spent every moment with it. It brought me so much joy. Our laughter would fill every empty corner of our home. Every nook was filled with the special sound of pure happiness of children. My yo-yo made that sound.
In the fall, we would gather the leaves from the tree and jump in them for hours. My mother would make a soup with leeks she grew in the back garden. “Five potatoes” she would say, “keeps a family fed”. The leek soup smelled like the leaves turning red. She would make bread to eat with the soup.
Our oven would never stay the same temperature and would burn the bread but it would be warm when we came back home when the sun set. My mother’s fall song was sweet. She sang about love and embers but the words to the song always changed.
The winters weren’t like the rest. The poppies would disappear and we wouldn’t go outside to play on the swing. The cold would freeze us all the way to the bone. My mother wouldn’t make lemonade. Shadows hung on the walls and the floor would suck all of the warmth out of my feet. My socks would wear thin and there would be more holes than fabric.
My mother never sang songs. She would lie in bed and wouldn’t speak in the winter. Sometimes, she would stand in the kitchen, she would just stand there looking lost. I was lost in the winter.
My mother sang one last song to us when they came. They loaded us into a car. They made us leave our mother. They made us leave the songs and the lemonade. My home was made of warm wood, decayed and splintery. They took us to a place where everything was smooth plastic. They were as cold as white plastic. White plastic reminds me of . . . it reminds me of the salty taste of my tears. My tears ran down my cheeks then. My tears have now run dry. And so has my fear.
I have a suitcase in my hand. It is big with flower patterns on its soft fabric. I have packed 18 years of living loathing and fear in it now. It is heavy. I put my suitcase down, force a smile and walk away. Maybe I’ll buy a yo-yo.
