The Book of Coincidental Colours
This collection of short stories will take you on a literary journey through colour in all its aspects – from the origins of different pigments, to how it influences us emotionally, mentally, physically, or even spiritually.
Colour has been a source of inspiration and illumination throughout history, and has been revered by artists, writers and emperors alike.
This is a personal ode to its unparalleled importance in the lives of everyone that has ever lived or will ever live on this planet.
Excerpt from The Book of Coincidental Colours...
PINK
UNDER THE SHADE OF THE SAKURA
With the blindfold covering my eyes, I stick my tongue out, prepare myself to receive what he wants me to taste. A patch of quickly spreading cold, numbing not just my tongue but the roof of my mouth, my gums and throat, makes me tense up, straighten my back. I shiver, but don’t pull away. Ice, grated to fine slivers, a hint of something tangy – maybe raspberry or strawberry – adding a fruity note as the flavour begins to fade. My lips close round the spoon – smooth, thin, but not as cold as what it held. I let the chilled sensation travel all the way down my throat.
‘Well? What does it taste of?’ he asks, and pulls the spoon away.
‘Ice with a dash of raspberry?’
‘Yes, yes.’ I catch a spark of impatience in his voice. ‘But tell me more.’
I raise my hand, try to remove the blindfold, but he stops me.
‘No. . .keep it on.’
‘Why?’
‘You mustn’t let your other senses jump in the way. What does the taste feel like?’
‘Well,’ I say, and take a long breath in. The coolness of the ice has left a lasting wintry impression in my mouth. ‘It tastes like pink.’
‘Pink? You mean the colour?’
I nod. ‘Yes. Pink. Not an electric, plastic sort though, but a gentler hue.’
‘Describe it for me. What is pink?’
I remove the blindfold before he can say anything, run my fingers through my hair, still keeping my eyes shut.
‘Pink is my tongue on a rose petal – soft, velvety, so frail it sticks and lets its essence seep through.’
‘A rose petal?’
‘Yes. It is the absence of sharpness, the air fresh with spring. Light, buoyant, yet retaining a hint of the silence of winter.’
‘Go on,’ he says, and I hear a shuffle on the bamboo mat; he’s moving closer to me. I catch a whiff of his skin – strong, smelling of early morning, appealing to my curious nostrils.
‘It doesn’t move the way blue does in fluid, curly swirls. No. It’s not as liquid as blue,’ I say, my eyebrows coming closer together. ‘And it’s not as solid and immobile as black, a cold stillness which only speaks of unseen, underwater movements. There is nothing menacing or hungry lurking underneath the surface calm. No. Pink is not like that.’
‘Then what’s it like?’
‘It’s difficult to describe.’
‘Try,’ he says, and inches one step nearer. I feel the warmth of his body near mine. I breathe in deep, until my heartbeat is even, calm.
‘You’re not making this easy for me, are you?’
‘No, don’t stop now. I want to know.’
‘Can I, at least, open my eyes?’
‘No. Stay as you are. Go on.’
‘Well…there is a clarity to pink, the way a sunrise gently wakes up the senses, allowing them to open their eyes and stretch their muscles. There is a gentle unfolding, both childlike and innocent, but also seductive and alluring.’
‘Yes,’ he says, his voice husky with enthusiasm. ‘Yes, that’s right. Don’t stop.’
I’m in the moment now, immersed in my feelings for something without substance. ‘It glides on the tongue, settles on the skin like dew, prickling but not hurting, bringing it to life, but not bursting forth in giant strides.’
‘Go on, go on!’ he says, an urgency in his words.
‘It is meringue, fluffy, crisp, full of space but not empty; a peach sorbet, cold and tingly, but not too sharp and not too sweet. It lingers on the taste buds, cools them without freezing them to silence.’
‘What else?’
‘It has the feel of dreams. They come shrouded in pink, invite you into their honeysuckle smell, allow you to melt at your own will and follow an unknown path. There is nothing forceful in this colour. It waits for you to come home from work, full of longing and expectation, wanting to share the day’s excitement with you, but with unhurried talk, slowly. It is respect, the act of giving, humility. It’s patient and serene.’
I stop talking and he doesn’t reply. Instead, I feel his hand on my face, warm, long fingers caressing my temples. I touch his skin and he pulls me near but does not kiss me. I hunger for his kiss, but he lifts me up and sits me on his lap. I open my eyes. He’s staring at me, so close, the fine sparse stubble above his lips and on his chin glistens with a trace of early morning sunlight.
Without haste, he runs his palms through my hair, down my back and up my arms, discovering what lies beneath my skin. I watch him in silence, not wanting to break the fragile unspoken conversation.
I am unsure how long we remain like that, lost in each other’s gaze, his searching touch gentle, not greedy or rough. When he next speaks, his voice is low, almost a whisper.
‘You have a special gift,’ he says. ‘You see inside the marrow of each thing, a person, an animal, a colour…you close your eyes and whatever you’re thinking about unravels itself, stands naked in front of you. But without shame. No. It never feels shame.’
I blink but do not speak.
‘Do you know why?’ I shake my head. ‘Because you do not judge. You simply accept it for what it is.’
A ray of sunlight escapes the confines of the half-lowered blind and slowly crawls up his bare skin. I follow its procession, study the contours of his muscles, how they rise and fall with his breath, the hairs on his arms creating a soft halo around his body, his dark green veins near the surface. I lean close, place a kiss right where his neck meets his shoulders. I close my eyes. This is where I want to be, nowhere else but here.
‘I look at you and see myself reflected in your eyes,’ he says. I straighten my back, take in his face once more. ‘You are a mirror. My mirror. I’m humbled when your eyes fall on me because, you see, that’s when I realise that what is really going on inside of me has absolutely nothing to do with you. It has everything to do with me. I see myself with perfect vision.’
He holds my face between his hands and kisses me, the kiss I’d been longing for. It traps my breath before it leaves my lips, creates a thirst for more. I tilt my chest towards him until our bodies touch, but he stops me, lightly pushes me away.
‘Please, listen to what I have to say.’
‘All right.’ A momentary wave of irritation warms my neck. It evaporates before it has a chance to grow roots, to fester.
‘I’ll hurt you. I know I will.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I say, panic rushing through my body as if I’d been doused by ice cold water. ‘You’ve never hurt me.’
‘No, I haven’t, yet. But I will. I always hurt the people I love most.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You couldn’t hurt an ant. What’s got into you, anyway?’ I climb off his lap, settle on the floor, my knees bent underneath me. The bamboo mat presses against my shins; it will leave little dotted marks.
‘Nothing’s got into me,’ he says. ‘In fact, I see things much clearer than I’ve seen them before.’
I wait for him to speak. The late March sun is pale, has more of the winter still in it than the early spring. He runs his fingers through his straight black hair, tucks it behind his ears. I move my gaze away from him, watch the steam rising from our cups of white tea in wispy curls; the tea is pale, like the sun outside. He clears his throat and I look back at him.
‘This is not what you deserve. I am not ready.’
‘I don’t understand. What do you mean? Ready for what?’
‘We cannot be together.’
My breath burns me. Or is it his words? I do not answer but look down at my hands, in tight fists, resting on my legs. He goes on, his voice cracking.
‘If we stay together, I will ruin you.’
‘How?’ I say, and look up. His eyes meet mine, wet, shiny, controlled.
‘It won’t be obvious at first. You won’t notice much. We might be together for a year or more. You’ll look back to this day and tell me I was wrong. And, for a while, it will seem that way. But, soon, you’ll pick up slight changes in your thoughts, you’ll see small defects in others you never saw before. And you won’t pay attention. It is at this point that the wound I will have caused in you will deepen and will never close.’
‘I still don’t understand. What wound? What is it that you think you’ll do to me?’
‘I’m scarred, don’t you see that? I tear apart anything pure and wholesome. You will begin to realise that no longer do you not accept others as they are but, most importantly, you won’t accept yourself. You’ll look at everything and see only ugliness.’
‘You’re lying, not making any sense,’ I say. The tea is cooling down.
‘No. I am making perfect sense. For once.’
‘That’s not true.’
He doesn’t answer immediately, instead picks up his teacup, takes a sip and places it back on the floor next to the iron cast teapot. It’s flat and has a bamboo motif running along the top.
‘Look around you,’ he says, ‘and tell me…what do you see?’
‘In this room?’
He nods. ‘Yes. What’s the first thing that you see?’
I glance about me, unsettled by the change in conversation.
‘Light. I see the sunlight as it’s slowly filling the room making it brighter.’ I pause. ‘Why?’
‘That is our difference.’
‘What do you mean?’
He smiles a tired smile not taking his eyes off me. ‘Where you see light, I notice the dark shadows. They reach me first and stay with me.’
I sit up on my knees, move closer to him and take his hands into mine.
‘You’re wrong. You do not only see the darkness. I refuse to believe that.’
He kisses me. I taste salt on his lips from tears he’s shed noiselessly.
‘Believe me. I wish it were not so. But it is.’ He shakes his head. ‘And, I cannot see you dying inside, one small bit at a time, and know I am responsible for you no longer seeing light but only shadows.’
‘Don’t say that. Don’t. I won’t listen to you speak this way.’
‘When I can love myself, accept myself just as I am, then I can love you the way you deserve. I choose that kind of love, not one polluted and suffering, rank with disease and misery. Because, one day, you will wake up and all the love you felt for me will be gone and, what’s worse, you will no longer love yourself.’
‘Please stop,’ I say, my ribcage pressing on my lungs.
‘I can’t.’ He holds my face between his hands and kisses me once more, a burning kiss, reeking of desperation, madness. Finality.
He stands up. I cling onto his hand, try to pull him back to me, but he releases my hold and walks away. I watch him as he slips into his trousers, buttons his shirt and ties his shoelaces. When he is dressed, he stands by the door, his back to me, and turns his head a little in my direction. My eyes travel down his profile – full lips, small flat nose, high cheekbones on his long oval face, the smoothness and evenness of his sallow skin. He does not look at me, his eyelids lowered on his wide black eyes.
‘One day you’ll thank me,’ he says, and without another word lets himself out. For a moment, sunlight floods the floor, a patch of brilliance – colourless, ephemeral – then it disappears. I cannot move, I’m kneeling, acutely aware of the emptiness he’s left behind. A sunray licks my arm but it is cool; he’s taken the warmth with him, too.
Seconds. Minutes. Hours. The tea is cold; a ring of speckled green has formed round the rim. A light iridescent film floats on the surface. My knees are sore from kneeling, way past the point of feeling numb and prickly. The morning sun has run its course, and now, soft shadows creep in my direction, are closing in, covering every empty inch on the bamboo mat, claiming it to their darkness.
Unable to take the pain any longer, I lower myself to the floor, stretch out my legs in slow, stiff movements. My cheek rests on the coolness of the mat. I smell the earthy dryness of the bamboo and grit my teeth. I do not cry. I cannot cry. I cannot even think. I let the evening cover me with its dusky shades. I should get up, but cannot move. Twilight rolls into night, and with it comes a heavy, leaden sleep; if I am lucky, I won’t wake up from it.
But, luck, it seems, is not on my side. With daybreak, the first traces of silent sunrays glide over my legs, travel up my side, and settle on my face. I wince, cover my eyes, try to keep out the rudeness of the light. I don’t succeed; the gentle sun is also persistent and won’t give up.
I sit up with care, my body sore and frozen from the hard floor, my throat scratchy from thirst, my ribcage tight and silent around the place where my heart used to beat. I kneel, lift myself up and take small agonising steps towards the kitchen sink, each time my foot touches the floor I want to scream from the throbbing in my limbs. I turn the tap on and let the water run, place my hand underneath its stream, until it’s chilled enough – I don’t care that I’m already shivering, no amount of cold can harm me now. I drink one glass, then one more, and another. My thirst cannot be quenched. Or maybe it’s my sorrow. I can no longer tell the difference.
Turning my head in the direction of the front door, I catch a glimpse of my work table, everything neatly lined up along the back edge by the window. My sketchpad lies open. His slanted eyes stare back at me under his dark straight eyebrows, a lock of black hair falling on his forehead. It’s as if he’s mocking me – one half drawn out, the other missing – but I refuse to think this way. I know he loves me. I know it. He’ll be back.
I will not call him or even try to find him, convince or beg him to return to me. I know he’ll return, as surely as the sun will rise again tomorrow and fall at night, only to shine again the next day. He can pretend and tell himself he’s doing this for me, but he is not. I shut my eyes, block out the image of the unfinished lines forming his face; completing his portrait is not the way to bring him back. There’s only one way to do that. Only one.
Taking a deep, slow breath, I turn the tap on, again, and place my head below it. the water refreshes me, shocks me into action. I smooth back my hair, feel droplets as they travel down my neck and soak my T-shirt. I know what I must do, for his sake, and mine.
I go to my work table, rummage around a box of paints, until I find a jar of an earthy red sinopia ground to a fine powder. I twist the lid off and a faint metallic scent reaches my nostrils. I empty a pinch in a small marble bowl I have for pulverising pigments. It’s a lean colour, nothing rich or deafening in its hue. Then I find my container of lime white. I add a little – more than the red – and stir the two together with the marble pestle. The delicate scraping sound is all I can hear for a few minutes. I look at the mixture, now a fine, soft shade of pink, and empty the powder in another bowl. I place the mortar down on the table. The next part will require time and effort, but it is essential that I do it.
The oval pink quartz catches the sun and looks milky. I hold it in my hand, feel its slinky coolness fade. Soon, it is warm, fits in my palm with perfect precision. I bring the crystal to my lips and whisper. ‘Thank you.’
I place the rose quartz in the mortar, take the pestle in my hands and bring it down with force on the crystal. At first nothing happens, but I persist. Again and again, I hammer on the quartz with force until small spider lines begin to form, then chunks break off. I smash them harder still. Sweat gathers on my forehead, thin rivulets run down the side of my face and nape, yet I don’t stop. On and on I continue inflicting one blow after the next. I pause, my breathing loud in my head, wipe my brow with the back of my hand. How long have I been doing this? I am unsure, but it must be some hours – the sun has drifted across the room. I switch on my desk lamp and pick up where I left off. I do not hurry, that would be pointless. What I want to create will take time, it needs it.
My arms are sore. I swap the pestle from one hand to the other, continue banging and crushing the rose quartz until it has been reduced to a fine glistening powder. I stop, gaze at my handiwork. I’m pleased. A rumbling sound comes from my belly. I glance at the clock and realise I haven’t put a bite in my mouth in over a day. I place the pestle down and head to the kitchen, scramble something to eat, anything, doesn’t matter what, as long as I have some food in me I can go on working.
My stomach satisfied, I head back to my desk. I play with the powdered rose quartz. There are still some tiny fragments which feel sharp, but I don’t mind – I have enough. I can now mix it with the pink pigment.
I empty the sinopia powder into the mortar and grind a little longer. The blended powders take on a darker hue, they now look like they have more substance, yet they still glimmer when placed under the light – the rose quartz adds something ethereal, a speck of star dust, a fleeting thought. It is the element of air, of opportunity. Of hope. The sinopia lends it an earthy quality, it’s unpretentious, heavy; perhaps it’s the hematite that gives it this metallic touch, its blood, this tethering to the land, a solidity it cannot circumvent.
A drop falls into the mortar with the rose quartz and the combination of pigments. My cheeks are cold. I wipe them with my hands. I have been crying but have not realised. Tears slide quietly down my face and into the mixture, darkening it with each droplet. For a second I panic – this will ruin what I’m trying to make. But then, I shake my head. No. If I am to do this properly, it needs the element of water. It needs its softness, its emotions. It needs a part of me.
I strike a match and light the pink candle that’s on my desk. I let it burn for some minutes, watch the flame dance and flicker, observe the melted wax increase around the wick; it’s smooth and clear, its surface reflects the glow from the flame and shimmers like a silent lake. I wait a little longer – the more wax I have, the better the outcome.
The candle flame is hypnotising. It soothes my aching heart, caresses it with gentle, irregular movements. I sit in silence watching the candle melt down, creating a hole in the centre, all the time sinking deeper and deeper. When it has reached halfway, I pick it up, hold it above the mortar full of ground quartz, sinopia and tears and pour in the melted wax. A small puff of dust rises as the melted candle touches the dry powders. It hardens quickly, no longer translucent but milky.
Placing my fingers in the mortar, I start to knead the mixture into a strange sort of dough, a little rough to the touch, but it will do. The warmth from my hands makes it pliable. The wax creates a slimy film on my skin speckled with sinopia quartz dust. I pick the dough in my hands, roll it between my palms, notice it begin to turn harder, colder. I hold it over the lit candle, see the wax glisten as it begins to melt again, but before it starts to drip, I begin kneading it once, pressing it, squeezing it, moulding it into shape.
I form his head first, then his shoulders and his arms and by warming isolated sections over the flame, little by little, I make my way down his body until I am holding a miniature version of him in my hands. With a long thin piece of metal, I carve out his eyes, his nose and mouth. I sculpt his chin and ears. I find a ball of black wool, cut off a long piece, then shorter bits, warm the wax over his head and stick the strands down. I do the same for his eyebrows. I gaze at my creation – my lover, chiselled from four out of the five elements. He’s almost ready.
I lay him down on the table top. I need to make him clothes – his doll-like nakedness disturbs me. I rummage through some boxes underneath my work table, find a dark blue cotton material and a pale grey – just like the colours he wears. I take my scissors in my hand, hold up the material against his tiny body, and cut out a pair of trousers from the blue and a shirt from the grey. I don’t care if his clothes fit perfectly. Sewing’s not something I enjoy doing, but he won’t notice what his toy clothes are like, he won’t mind. I thread a needle, all the while avoiding his waxen stare. Even in this form, he’s challenging me to look at him, to argue, beg him to come back. But I won’t. That’s not my way. This is.
The clothes ready, I slip them on his body and sew the shirt in front of his chest. He’s finished now. I hold him in my hand – a small, odd-looking sort of lover – and smile. Without letting go of him, I pick up a piece of driftwood we’d found together during a walk by the sea, an almost flattened chunk of wood, bleached and weather-beaten by the salt water, the waves and the sun. This will be his pedestal. I place him down, pick up the candle once more and, warming the soles of his feet, I hold him on the driftwood until he’s standing on his own.
I kneel on the floor, rest my hands one on top of the other on my work table, lean my chin on my hands and stare at him eye-to-eye level. My Lilliputian lover stands in from of me. He’s perfect…even in miniature form.
He now has air, earth, water and fire from the candle flame – only one element left to go.
Leaning in close, I place my lips against his cold stiff belly and breathe – the element of spirit entering his body, warming his wax flesh. I smile at him.
‘I’m almost finished. Just a few final touches, then we can begin.’
I know it would seem strange to someone watching me, speaking to this inanimate object, conversing with a doll. But I know he hears me. I can feel it in my flesh, through my veins, all the way down to my bones.
I get up, walk about the room, gather three candles and a vase of flowers – a bouquet of pink camellias – and place them in the centre of the room, on the floor. I go to my bedroom, to the side of my bed, take hold of the frame with his photograph inside – a black and white shot of him looking down, taken first thing in the morning, a half-smile etched on his lips, eyes partly shut. I hold the frame against my chest, take in a long slow breath. I can still smell his skin, his warmth forever present on my body, intimacy binds us and hold us captive. For a moment I cannot move, a well of emotions rush to the surface and threaten to knock me to the ground. I leave the bedroom before more memories and feelings invade me.
Holding the frame in my hands, I walk back to where the candles and flowers wait. I place his photos next to them and light the candles. Last of all, I position him, his tiny sculpture, in front of the other collected items.
Kneeling, I join my palms, bring them to my heart.
‘May you love yourself the way I love you. May we become each other’s mirrors,’ I whisper.
I bow gently and get up. I will perform this prayer every day – this is what will bring him back to me. I feel it.
A week goes by. There is no message, no knock on the front door. I do not find him waiting for me on the doorstep when I return from the market. That is fine. He needs his time. He must feel my absence, must miss me. I do not panic, do not worry. He’ll be back. I know it. He’ll be back. He need his time.
Another week. I watch the buds on the sakura tree outside in the front lawn begin to form, their warm fleshy pink pushing against the rice-shaped buds, filling out, preparing to erupt almost overnight. Their unfolding will be fast yet silent. Before the week is over, these guarded buds will have released their secrets, will have blossomed and the soft pink light which reaches my living room now bringing with it an intimacy that only this gentle colour can bring, making me think of my mother’s arms round me when I was young, soothing, understanding, will shift into something sunnier, as if someone’s turned the lights on and the room will fill with brightness. I hold onto this imagined caress, try to make its effects become permanent. But inside, I am anything but calm. I feel the walls of my house crowd round me. Impatience crawls through my veins, twists its way around my throat and presses steadily. I want to scream, to break something. But I do nothing, nothing at all except kneel in front of his figurine every day and whisper the same thing, ‘May you love yourself the way I love you. May we become each other’s mirrors.’ He’ll hear me, I know he will. He’ll feel my gentle murmur, my sigh will travel through his being. It has to. It just has to.
The end of the third week comes and goes, and with it, my hope fails a little bit each day, one drop at a time, one flicker of the candle flame. I sit in silence, the only words that leave my lips are what I’ve told him for the past twenty-one days. Why is he not listening? Does he really not feel me calling him? I want to cry. I have a need for tears to wash away this pain. But I cannot. I try, yet nothing comes out. Each second that goes by feels like an hour, and hours feel like days. At moments I almost cave in and call him, but stop myself just before my fingers dial his number. I mustn’t call. It’ll break the spell of bringing him close of his own accord; he has to want this, it cannot be forced. And so I sit and suffer with my thoughts. If only I could scratch them out of my head, lock them in a box and bury them under the sea.
A month of silence. The end of April. The sakura tree outside has all but completed its breath-taking performance and its petals are slowly falling now. A soft carpet of pale pink-white carpet of blossoms creates a pool of petals on the pathway to my front door, making my heart swell – his favourite time of year, there’s nothing he enjoyed more than to see the cherry trees in full bloom. Only a few blossoms remain on the branches now. Yet, all this stunning beauty may as well be lost on me. I don’t know what I’m waiting for anymore. I must be insane to believe he’d have healed himself in just one month. That is impossible, and yet, I keep on hoping, keep on believing that the faint tap on my door will come, his face will stand across from mine, that gentle smile of his chiselling down my defences. But there is nothing. Only silence. Not even one missed call, one unread message. Nothing. I utter my small prayer to him and get up.
The last day of April. I walk back home from work, step on the decaying cherry blossoms, their once-bright pallor now turning brown at the edges, sludgy, reeking of death. I tread on their softness, my eyes cast down. I reach my doorstep. And there I stop, stand paralysed gazing at the small branch of sakura blossoms below, a pale green ribbon tied around the stalk. My heart quickens and I glance about me, trying to see if I can make out his shape amongst the trees. It must have been him who left these flowers for me. It could have been no one else. But no matter how much I turn around, I notice and hear nothing – if he was here before, he has now gone, that’s obvious. I bend down, pick up the branch with its white blossoms clinging onto life with defiance and pause – it fits snugly in my palm. I enter my home, place the branch in the vase by the candles, his picture and his figurine. Why would he leave me this and not stay? Is this a sign that he’s coming back, a message to wait for him, to keep believing? Or am I reading too much into this small gesture? I kneel in front of the altar dedicated to him, bow and whisper my prayer. I know I should not hope but a small grain of sunshine cracks through my pain, casts light on my heart. I feel some energy returning to my resigned body. I must do something different, must make some changes. But what? What would he have told me to do?
The answer doesn’t come immediately but a few days later as I’m on the bus on my way to work. It comes so silently I almost miss it, but it’s the only answer. I must create something of my own, make myself stronger, must grow to love myself so much that he will have no choice but to feel that love mirrored back to him. Yes. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I see now that he was right to leave – he would have broken me in small, delicate strokes because I wasn’t strong enough myself. By leaving he is fortifying me. I need to heal as much as he does. I see it now. I see it clearly. He has been doing this for me. And also for him and for the love that we both know we share. He wants us to survive, grow old together, be united yet not as one organism, but as two sides of the same coin.
I reach home, kneel by the altar and take his figurine in my hands.
‘What would you advise me to do?’
I wait for a reply but he doesn’t speak. I ask again and, once more, nothing. I nod. His silence is the answer. I must do this for myself or it will have no worth. I place him gently back down and rise. I sit at my work table and devise a plan, something that pleases me more than anything I’ve recently thought: I will paint everything around me in shades of pink. I’ll sew new covers and fresh sheets, give away all of my old belongings. I will transform as he is changing. Nothing fast or hurried. No. that will not do. It has to be slow, gentle, smooth. And, once the whole house is radiating with pink, then I will carve bits of driftwood, create a whole legion of wooden figurines and place them around the house; they will protect me and guide him home. I have no idea how to do this, I am a painter, not a sculptor, but I will find a way. And it will be something of my own, unlike anything else anyone else does.
The very next day, I buy the paints – all different shades of pink – and begin taking down paintings and photographs. The next day, I fill in missing gaps, sand the surfaces down and brush a primer on all the walls. I wait. I do not want to hurry. Day after day, I colour every inch, every square meter of open surface. I mix the shades – one side is dark, the other light, some walls are more mellow and some spring to life when the sun glides across. In this way, I proceed throughout the house until it only vibrates to the colour pink. The petals on the cherry blossom branch have fallen. Only one single flower remains. I pluck it off the branch and place it between the pages of a book – this one I’ll keep, along with the pale green ribbon.
Once the walls are finished, smelling of paint and new life, I move through all my furniture, my clothes and utensils. I place what I will keep in a pile on the floor and everything else goes in boxes – fifteen in total – the pile seems miniscule in comparison. I take the boxes to the homeless shelter down town and promise to bring them some furniture, too. When I get home, I kneel by his wax image, lean close to him and place a kiss on the top of his little cold head. I say my prayer with eyes shut and get back to my work.
The middle of May. I fill the house with peonies, freesias and azaleas, all in shades of pink. I buy materials and start sewing new covers for the sofa, the cushions, curtains, duvet cover, sheets…I fill the house with patterns and shades that, once together, make me feel like I’m in a sea of pink. I swim in these soothing waves, let them wash over me and circle round my body, support me as I float. I find no messages on my phone or inbox. His silence is complete and drawn-out, but the buoyancy of the colour saves me from sinking.
May is almost at an end. Still nothing. A full two months since he left. To keep my desperation at bay, I start planting flowers that will bloom in different seasons, all around the house. I kneel on the wet soil day in, day out, my back curved, my fingers covered in dirt, my fingernails black and gritty, and breathe onto each bulb I bury in the soil. I whisper my desire to have year-round flowers, all in shades of pink. I don’t know if I’ll succeed – I’m not much of a gardener – but I will try. And if a plant dies, I will fill its place with something else, as long as there are no gaps. My life must now become pink both inside and outside.
June, July, August. All come and go. Sweat slithers down my neck and cicadas play their never-ending music, their din’s so loud, it drowns out the noise his absence still makes. I spend my summer mornings walking along the beaches near my town picking up bits of driftwood. My skin takes on a golden baked hue as I walk under the sun, the tips of my hair feel dry. After three months I have enough driftwood to fill a box the size of a washing machine. Looking at all those pieces of wood makes me smile – there’ll be so many protectors round my house, it bodes well. I hold each piece in my hands, close my eyes and let its silent grating voice speak to me. It tells me what is hidden underneath the rough exterior. Only when each wood whispers its name to me, when I’m allowed to glimpse at its innermost being, only then do I pick up my little carving tools and start to scrape and chisel out its shape. In three months, I have a number of guardians placed around the house: an owl, a whale, an angel, a mermaid in love with the moon…
The summer rolls by and flies away on clouds of autumn rain. The drops that fall are gentle, unsure and frightened, yet with them comes a freshness that the previous months did not possess. His silence is unnerving, but it bothers me less and less. He doesn’t leave my thoughts, not even for a moment, but the difference is that, now, I observe them, the way I notice bees settle on one blossom, then move away when all its sweetness has been sucked up. I still continue whispering that prayer, every day, without fail. The more I repeat it, the more each word seems to gather power, it gives me strength. I now believe the magic etched in the fabric of each word, I’m not just repeating empty hopes. I feel its tightly binding spell wrap itself round me, cocoon me in pink-white light and raise me from the ground. Each word, when spoken aloud has life, a life of its own. It answers back in a soft sweet voice, encourages me to keep on going. And I do. I cannot stop. I believe if I did, it would be like telling my lungs to stop breathing. I’d die, that much is certain.
September. October. November. December. A new year arrives and still nothing from him. But I no longer mind. I talk with him in my head each day and, in some strange way, I feel him closer than when he was right there next to me. I hear his answers, see his smile. His arms circle round my body and pull me near. He is more present now than he was before, caressing my hair as I fall asleep, lying beside me, his breath warm and rhythmic on my neck. We grow together even in our separation.
Before I know it, we are in April again. A year’s gone by. I can’t say it’s been easy, but it’s passed, that much is clear. I sit in the garden, gaze at the pink rhododendron, azaleas and trillium. And, of course, the beautiful blossoming sakura, not yet fully opened, but soon, so very soon. He doesn’t appear. I thought he might, but he does not. I find this month the hardest to get by. All of the work I’ve done somehow doesn’t make much sense to me. I welcome each day not with a hopeful smile, but with a sinking dread that chills my body and threatens to throw me back to the dungeon I’d been crawling around in a year earlier. Why doesn’t he some back? Hasn’t he grown, felt how I’ve changed, too? I watch the sakura blossoms unfolding, straightening out, burst with innocence, alertness, life. Yet, he still remains absent. Why? This is the first time in one year that I feel my resolve weaken. I almost stop whispering my prayer to him. Almost. But something in me urges me to go on. And so I do, with a deflated spirit.
This year, spring arrived late. The blossoms on the cherry tree are still vibrant and strong in the first week of May, but as the second week flows by, I notice the first signs of disintegration – browning edges, withered petals, then the inevitable releasing of the flowers. Down they drop to the ground, create a soft pale rug around the tree, a future nurturing humus. I go to work and when I come home carve with a fire that I’ve rarely felt. My small protectors pile up in numbers. I place the at the base of bushes, in corners, even in some drawers: a bird, a tree, an outstretched hand, a lotus flower and an elephant, those are some of my creations. The ones outside begin to look more rugged, the sun and chill beating them to surrender, darkening their surfaces but softening their centres. How long they’ll last I do not know, but I will keep them out there until they rot to nothing, until the earth welcomes them back into her womb. The only ones I keep next to my bedside are the whale and the angel. Those I need close.
Petals keep falling. I hardly notice as I kick them aside when I walk down the lane to my house. I go to work and come back. I do not meet any friends after work. At first they tried getting me to go out with them, to drink and eat and watch a film or two, but after a while, seeing I was not accepting any of their invitations, they stopped asking. I am alone, but do not mind. I prefer this silence. I crave it. Because in silence I can hear him better, I can feel the messages he wordlessly sends me at all hours, when my skin starts to tingle and my senses magnify. He loves me still. I know he does. I feel his desire for me as a throbbing ball in my belly. Yes, he loves me still. Loves me to distraction.
The middle of May. I hold my groceries in my arms, the size and weight of a toddler – the one I’ll never have – and walk towards my front door. That’s when I see it. The branch of sakura resting on the doorstep, only this one with a light blue ribbon tied around the base. I nearly drop my bags. He has not forgotten. He remembers. I walk passed the branch, enter my house and place the paper shopping bags on the kitchen counter, then I go back outside and lower myself to the ground. I do not pick the branch immediately. For a while, I stare at it. This one is larger than last year’s one, its blossoms very much alive. I pick it up and bring it into the house. As with the previous branch, I save the last blossom and the ribbon, press it between the pages of another book. My chest expands and constricts all at once, tears well in my eyes but do not fall. That night, before going to bed, I raise his figurine to my chest, hold it against my skin, then whisper my wish to him.
And so, they pass, one year after the next. I notice the years by the predictable flow of blossoming flowers in the garden, then dying away to give space to other plants, allowing them to make their appearance, like actors in a play: from winter jasmine, hellebore, camellias, scilla and anemones, to rhododendron, sakura, tulips, peonies, primulas, Peruvian lilies, then roses, hydrangea, phlox, busy Lizzies, dahlia and magnolias looking like slowly rising birds, bush clover, sedum and penstermon, aster, chrysanthemums and cyclamen, to pampas grass and African violets, gerberas, then back to winter jasmine…some fragrant, others scentless, but all of them in shades of pink. I mark each year’s passing by the endless array of flowers and with the solitary branch that I find on my doorstep at the end of the cherry tree’s frenzied eruption.
Two, nine, ten years go by, which quickly slip into twelve, fifteen, twenty, then twenty-nine. The wrinkles round my eyes and mouth betray the number of decades that have gone by, as does the growing number of ribbons and small pressed sakura blossoms, most now turned brown and brittle with age. I no longer think he will return. I have no such thoughts of hope. But I am grateful nonetheless for his remembrance, for he does remember, every year, without fail. I have not lived my life the way I thought I would. But what’s the point of dwelling on that now? I still go to work, though my working hours have been reduced, and when I come home, I crouch down by the flowerbeds, take out errant weeds and rise with difficulty. I water my plants, then go indoors to my wood carvings. There are now so many I have lost count. They don’t come out as plentiful as they once did – my fingers are not as nimble as they used to be, my eyes can’t focus that well anymore. But I still carve odd bits of driftwood that I find. I go about my life – the only solitary life I know – and have stopped questioning, stopped asking and yearning. And before going to bed, I continue to whisper my prayer to him. I expect nothing any longer. I only look forward to my routine.
April once more. This marks our thirtieth year apart. I almost laugh when I realise it’s been that long. The cherry blossoms are in full bloom, yet they seem paler this year than previous years, unless it’s my failing eyesight. That would make sense. I go out for a stroll by the sea, come back with a handful of damp driftwood – I’ll leave it outside to dry, then I can carve it, too. I walk towards my door and immediately notice the sakura branch on the doorstep. But something is different. There is an extra item leaning against the branch: a white envelope, so brilliant against the grey stone, it almost blinds me. For a moment I hesitate, then bend closer to see what’s written on it. My name. It’s his writing.
Without betraying the panic rising in my chest, I place my driftwood findings on the ground, serenely, not hurrying at all. I take the envelope in my hands and feel its contents with my fingers. I guess its weight. Nothing much. It’s almost flat, perhaps a single sheet of rice paper inside. I sit on the doorstep and stare at his handwriting on the front. This is most unusual, so unexpected that, for a long time, I don’t know how to react to it. So we sit there in silence, his letter and me, until the setting sun disappears and the warm reddening sky starts sinking into shades of blue and deepening purple. I rise, his letter still in my hand, leave my discarded bits of driftwood on the ground, and make my way into the house. I switch on some lights and rest the envelope on my work table. I fill the kettle with water and place it on the fire. I prepare a pot of green tea – I think I’ll need it and doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight.
When I have drunk my third cup, I feel ready to open his letter.
I slide my index finger underneath the back flap and rip the envelope open. I pull out a single sheet of white paper. I read the message. I read it again, then read it once more. My eyes scan across the graceful loops of his handwriting bringing back memories…so many memories. I keep on reading the single sentence that’s on there and the address below. I feel neither excitement nor anything else, only an odd paralysis.
‘Meet me tomorrow, when the sun is just rising.’
Where is this place he wants me to go to? Somewhere about an hour’s drive to the east from my home. I don’t ever recall us ever going there. Why has he picked that spot? And, why, after all these years, after these decades, does he want to meet now? What is the point? I rest the letter in my lap, stare at it until the words make no more sense. The sheer effort of trying to comprehend its hidden meaning tires me out and sleep takes over. I do not go to bed, just slide down on the sofa and drift off.
I’m up well before dawn. I change my clothes, brush my teeth and splash cold water on my face. I do not drink any tea. I slide my feet into my shoes and with his letter in my hands, I make my way out of the house. I walk slowly, not because I am so old – even though I am in the middle of my fiftieth decade – but because I have to understand what it is I’m feeling. The truth is…I don’t really know. My heart beats rapidly in my chest, my breathing is shallow, yet I am calm, my feet walk firmly on the ground, my knees don’t wobble, my hands don’t tremble. I do not drive to our meeting spot but take the bus – luckily, only one bus journey and not two or three. It might take longer to get there this way, but I need the time.
I stare out of the window as the bus rattles along. It’s almost empty, save for a woman going to work, her face tight and sleepy, and an old couple bickering about something; I have no interest in listening in on their conversation and am amazed that they have so much energy for arguing this early in the morning. I gather my thoughts about me, wrap them round my body and my mind and block out any unwanted sounds. The houses along the road look like they’re being pulled away from my vision, bathed in near darkness, the appear and disappear in a split second. Everything feels as if it’s in a dream – I glide along, not hearing properly, not smelling or seeing clearly. Nothing has true form, everything seems to be melting, shape-shifting, becoming that which it is not. I watch as the sun slowly begins to rise. We’re almost there.
The bus comes to a halt, and I can see the driver looking in the mirror, waiting for the passenger who asked to be dropped off here to descend. I pick up my small handbag and climb down. The doors shut behind me and the bus speeds off, a cloud of dust swelling at my feet. I wait until I can no longer see its red taillights.
I look about me, my bag looped round my elbow, his letter held so tightly in my hand it’s now completely crumpled up. I release my hold on it a little and set off down the road. It’s close by. I know. I looked it up. Nothing about here but fields of various crops as far as the eye can see. In the distance, I see hills with small patches of white where the snow still hasn’t melted. Only nature. And one house. This must be it. I walk down the gravel pathway, my eyes looking straight ahead, no thoughts in my head. What am I feeling? I don’t quite know. Not sure I’m feeling very much at all. The only sound I hear are my footsteps on the stones beneath me.
The house seems bigger from up close. I can’t detect any life inside. I stand facing the front door and don’t move for a while.
I’m here.
Now what?
I look about me. All I can see are cherry trees, one after the next, a whole orchard of them lined up as if waiting for my arrival. Is he hiding behind a tree? Is he in the house? I take a step closer, go up the three wooden steps that lead to the front porch. That’s when I see the piece of paper wedged between the front door and its frame. I recognise his writing immediately.
The paper feels flimsy in my hands. I read what’s scrawled on it: ‘Follow the path around the house to the back. There you will find me.’
I have to read his message a couple of times before my feet and brain begin to be coordinated once more. I walk down the steps, turn to my left, walk a bit further, turn left again, then keep going until I reach the back. I stop for a moment, falter, then go on once more. My legs are now moving of their own accord. I don’t feel like I’m in my body – someone else has taken over. I glance to my right and to my left but still don’t see him. Only cherry trees, all in full bloom. Sakura, upon sakura…a never ending carpet of white-pink blossoms everywhere I look. I keep on walking – nowhere else to go but forwards.
Time seems absent. I’m floating in a sea of cherry blossoms, being guided by their gentle breeze. I don’t know how long I walk for but, suddenly, I see him, standing in a small clearing amidst the trees, right in the centre. He sees me, too, and for a second, we both freeze. His palm flies to his mouth. He covers it. Why? To hide his shock? Hold back a smile? What for? I take one step closer, and one more. We are both old now, older than we’ve ever known each other to be. But I don’t care. I’m close enough to gaze into his eyes now, and there I recognise the man I knew, the man I’ve always known.
‘You haven’t changed at all,’ he says, a shocked smile on his lips.
‘Neither have you.’
One more step in his direction.
I place my hand on his cheek, then pull him towards me. We hold on for a long time in silence. No words are needed. I cannot believe we’re here. Together. In a long quiet embrace. We pull apart. I slip my hand in his.
We stand facing each other and, for a while, I wonder if either of us can actually speak – I know I have no feeling round my lips. All we can do is stare into each other’s eyes. He breaks the silence, looks sideways to the trees surrounding us, then back at me.
‘Sakura. The cherry blossom. It is the symbol of renewal, but also of the fleeting essence of life. I once saw myself reflected in your eyes, the way you saw me. But I did not see it. I had to find that image, had to believe it, grasp it for myself. It’s taken me decades, but now I know. I am that image. And I am sure I cannot hurt you. For I see myself reflected in my own eyes the way I was reflected in yours. And when I look at you, I see us both. Can you accept me back? Do you still hold me as you did?’
I move near and kiss him. ‘This is the greatness of pink. Its strength is patience. It’s gentleness. But it also moves mountains. I had no doubt you’d recognise your image.’
‘It’s fleeting,’ he says. ‘It might never last.’
‘It makes no difference. We are here now. This is all there’ll ever be.’
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