The
early years of my life were blurry and unclear. It was like living in
a dream, uncaring and unknowing. I can’t really remember
anything, only little pieces of my puzzle.
But,
sometimes I get
hit hard with deja-vu, the memory of the field. Rows upon
rows
of white gold standing in casual slumps waved in the wind, a
shriveled reminder of what they were. Elegant grids planned out for
enjoyment, artificial paths contrasting against the
surrendering
nature. The steel wires shackled and contained the defeated stalks, a
wondrous playground for the children, a jail for them.
I
don’t remember the dinner afterwards; my mind drew a complete
blank, the corn maze too exciting and the dinner too bland. I only
remember the crunch of a slightly sour apple, the warm buzzing in my
chest, and the rare smile on my mom’s face.
Mom
was stressed, and at that time, I didn’t even notice, or maybe,
I didn’t want to. She was alone, in a brand new country, in a
new environment where she didn’t have anyone, not even any
friends, or family. She had to support a child while trying to expand
her business, and while at the same time learning a brand new
language 20 years too late.
I
was…a difficult child. Not difficult in the sense that I
was picking fights, but difficult because I was different, didn’t
fit in, was more of an outcast. I wasn’t hated, but wasn’t
liked either. I was too brazen and too timid at the same time.
It
was these days he missed his homeland, deliciously cool and windy at
all times, where he could lie on the grass and listen to the birds
sing, the sun never blinding as it is always obscured by either
clouds or heavy mist in midday. It was never too chilly in the day
too; it was always balanced delicately as it was warm enough you
never needed to wear a sweater, but not cold enough to make the winds
feel like they were cold, freezing tendrils that stuck to his skin
and got under his clothes. There were no misty mornings where he
couldn’t see his hands when he was sent out to fetch a pail of
water. Summer was different here.
It
was awkward,
since I was new to everything. The neighbors a bit too kind and the
world a bit too big. Change was all around me, and the fragile house
we lived in: too afraid of change.
The
sun shone
brightly in all its midday glory as he labored away in its heat,
sweat dropping off his hair like dew in a misty morning. He glared at
the field, the suns swaying gently in the hot wind stared back. He
stopped when the bright yellow was seared into his eyes, effectively
blinding him like a cursed version of revenge. He ran a hand through
his sweat slick hair and bemoaned his existence of being a dark
haired human, the little streaks of gold not enough to resist the all
consuming black. Summers here were dusty, the sun
boiling.
The
rare times when
father would visit us was filled with tension and childish pretense.
My mom felt more relaxed but a too tense at the same time.They were
almost always arguing about something, whether it was about my
education or about the neatly stacked bills on the kitchen counter. I
didn’t know how to act around my father. He was intense, but
gentle. He didn’t have a way with words, but he always showed
it through his actions. I remember a day in winter when it just
stopped snowing, the white piling up, blocking the lower half
of the front door. Giving me a little plastic bag of nuts, he ushered
me away to feed the squirrels. I returned with a red face and scraped
knees.
He
turns around
again, tracing the mountain range with a thin finger blemished with
scars. “I heard the view is wonderful up there” the
winged boy said, halting his finger and letting gravity take hold on
his arm, his other hand finding hers (they were so shaky) and
clutching it like a lifeline.
“Do
you think I’ll make it?”
But
now, all I remember is the fight that day where the snow was just
covering half of the front door, I don’t remember how I got in,
or how I managed to scape my knees in such a short time, or if I
actually caught a squirrel. But in my mind I can still see the
frightened birds waiting for a clearer path to take flight, to leave
the trees behind.
He
wanted to continue his journey, but the scene was too good to be left
with the dust he raised in his travels. The looming mountains
in the background acted as a perfect backdrop for the lake. The lake
was alive; it shifted, moved, rippled without any care for this
world, the mountains, unmoving, seem to look over the entire plateau,
strong but gentle. As the mist set in, the sun gradually blurred into
a haze of red and yellow, as it spilled over like an orange and
drenched the whole skyline. He tasted the water, hoping it would
change after the metamorphosis, but to no avail. The lake was still
the same. It didn’t taste like oranges.
Now,
many years later, when see birds taking flight, all I can
taste
is the scent of warm corn and the apple I picked too early to be
sweet.
Anna
Ding is a 14
year old aspiring writer who reads way too many fantasy novels in
her free time. She has been traveling back and forth between China
and America for many years, and wants to share her experiences
through her writing, while staying true to her fantasy roots.