Slope ( A sequel of Mimosa)

‘Love is not suffering for the sake of suffering, it’s supposed to bring you closer to God.’

~ Orhan Pamuk

‘ It only takes one more step to be courageous.’

~ My mother

I was pondering.

Birds were chirping joyously outside of my house and not far from my house there was an empty land where children took refuge from of their lust-driven parents who were obsessed with the result of endless exam.

There were 6 of them, chasing each other on that empty land. Innocent smile radiated from their face, so affectionate, so passionate. I felt like I was infringing their privacy, but their euphoria was just irresistible and sumptuous. I guessed they wouldn’t blame me for being an inferior peeping Tom if they knew what the reason behind my sorrow was.

Glancing at the immaculate plain paper lain flatly on the table, my heart sore. Never in my whole life I felt so dejected and defeated because of an unfinished task. I didn’t mind to admit, I had trouble in finishing my sequel to my novel.

I was once a writer or bestseller, to put it frankly. My first novel I had ever written, Mimosa was an instant bestseller in most of the bookshops in my town and I was featured in every daily you could find in the town.

But, those were the glorious days I could only recount and excogitate in my memory. It had been 3 years since I released my last novel and also my first ever novel. People were getting bored my incomprehensible absence and I was forgotten slowly by my readers. Nowadays, not many readers could recall who wrote the bestseller Mimosa 3 years ago.

Mulled over my failure in producing a new novel or a sequel was an extremely tormenting process. I tried to meditate, I tried to seek help from professional writer shamelessly, but ultimately, I still failed.

Every time I took up my pen, it seemed all stationery would become stationary. The ink refused stubbornly to come out, idea seemed frozen, time became stagnant.

When was the last time I saw her?

Strangely, I thought of her at this crucial time or perhaps there’s always an explanation for that. Mimosa was her story, without her, was it possible to complete the story? The mere idea of completing the novel was agonizing.

The noise from outside my window deviated my attention from my teasingly unpolished stack of papers momentarily. Not far from the empty land, there was a U-shape structure stood there, quite obstructively and annoyingly. It was heavily vandalized and the graffiti on it was so obscene that some people wouldn’t even dare to set eyes on it.

But, the disturbing graffiti didn’t prevent its unwanted intruders from interrupting the harmonious and serenity there. This U-shape structure was once a place where all the skateboarders gather and showed off their skills. The slope, was the name they gave this U-shape structure daringly. It was once the favourite spot of unworried youngsters flocked and gathered together. Now, due to the poor maintenance, the surface of the slope was no longer smooth and it posed potential danger to skateboarders. So, they abandoned this haphazard slope dutifully.

Since they abandoned it, it had soon become a hot spot where every impeccable smile aspired to conquer. Normally, they would remove their shoes, drew a deep breath, then ran from a distant before they had enough momentum to climb up the seemingly insurmountable slope.

Most of them succeeded, few of them never. I, myself had once climbed up there with ease. I could still feel the sensation and the admiring gaze from all the kids there. Yes, this might sound immature and childish but I must, again admit the exhilaration was as inebriating as alcohol.

From far, I couldn’t tell how many of them were girls and how many were boys, but I could say confidently where were 6 of them as well. However, it’s not the number that captured my attention, it’s a boy, perhaps a girl who never managed to climb up the slope.

He/she was helpless and hapless. I could imagine vividly how hurtful was the taunt of your friends, how hopeless was the feeling of being alienated. I saw his/her ran from far, then used all his/her strength to run up. And fell to his/her knee just before he/she reached the top of the slope.

Same thing happened over and over again like someone had pushed the ‘Replay’ button on the remote control over and over again. I watched him/her intensely, praying silently for her and at the same time hoping her wouldn’t discover an impolite stare from far.

Ran, up, fell, same thing still happened.

Hard to not to feel compassionate as I could somehow relate his/her situation miraculously to my unhappy childhood. I was once discriminated, alienated and considered a black sheep in my school. I knew, that kind of feeling sucked.

Just as I was about to go to approach that kid, my cell phone shrieked infuriatingly. I picked up my phone in hurry,

“ Please come to the GH now, bro.” The voice of my sister blasted out from the phone. Wasted no time, I grabbed my car key and rushed outside. I had little time to squander.

X

If you ever asked what happened to my writing career, what went wrong, I would put the blame on my father, without feeling guilty.

Just as I devoted my life in writing, my father was diagnosed of contracting lung cancer. Silence engulfed me when I heard that personally from the doctor and my mother whimpered in disbelief beside me.

At that time, almost absurdly, I thought of her, the lady who dangled her legs on the park’s bench.

She let me know being ordinary was not a sin. She let me know cliché did happen everyday in every corner. How true she was!!

Now, my father, bedridden, spewing out blood-stained mucus periodically, so please tell me this was another cliché. Suddenly, I felt my life was just like a low-budget movie, cheap, destined to be cliché and destined to be loathed.

Could I still write? I surmised I had lost my talent, for good the moment I heard the awakening and yet somber news from the doctor.

“How much chances do you think he can survive?” I inquired, without even knowing what I was anticipating.

“ Hard to say, it depends on his willingness to co-operate, the longest, I think he can still live for 1 year.” The doctor claimed that with apparent calmness.

1 year? I fell silent. What could I do in 1 year? Pardon me for bringing up another banal quote fools loved to exclaim.

“ Do you think we should inform your sister or not?” My mother, red-eyed, whispered to me.

I stared at her, she looked older and behind the devastation, bravery was lingering. Pardon me again for another irritating banality. When was the last time I saw her shed her tears? Was it when I was getting caught reading porn in my primary school? I was too distraught to even think of a significant event like this.

“You reckon?” She stopped sobbing.

“I think we leave her alone first, didn’t the doctor say we have one more year?” I was a fool back then.

My mother broke into convulsive shuddering again. I told myself it was my fault.

X

Death came faster than what we had expected.

Before I had even reached the GH, he had passed away, quite peacefully in the GH. Death awakened our sense. Finally, I understood what the meaning of those words of wisdom was. After I reached there, everyone was so somber. My sister stood there emotionlessly and my mother sat on the chair, face covered by her ageing palms.

I needed no confirmation to know his ultimate demise had finally come.

After months of struggling, hazardous radiotherapy, arduous chemotherapy, Lord had finally taken him away from us, for good. I reminisced those months I had spent in the hospital, witnessing colour fading from his face, soul slowly receding from his body.

Upon his death, I was overwhelmed with relief, which I dared not to confess in front my relatives. Of course, I grieved. But, there was no tear in my eyes, perhaps I had exhausted my tears when I was taking care of him in the GH.

At that time, I almost whined and whimpered every night, after I came back from the GH. I prayed to Lord, ‘Oh Lord, please grant me the strength to get through all this agony, please help me.’

Those were the times I cried. Those were the times I felt beaten, completely.

Now, gazing at the blanket-covered body, ironically, I was only saddened by one thing.

X

My sister knew our father was sick 2 months after he was diagnosed of contracting this incurable disease.

She was furious at that time and I, had to explain to her why we chose not to tell her. Nevertheless, she didn’t get carried away by her wrath. She only listened sensibly and told us this was not the time to bicker with each other.

She went straight into the ward and greeted passionately with our father. Skillfully, she didn’t let her emotion displayed on her face. My father asked about her boyfriend, her studies in the local uni and she just listened obediently. Then, she answered all questions and my father seemed satisfied by her response.

They went on to chit-chat for a while and I just sat at on corner of the ward silently. I could never be as close as my sister to my father. I envied and saluted them, at the same time, cursing my cowardice.

Why couldn’t I be close to my father, in his final hours? For God’s sake, you were freaking me out!!!

“I love you. Always…” My sister cupped my father’s bony hand.

I was stupefied and petrified. My father tried to lift his head from the soft pillow, he tried to mutter something. But he chose to be silent, just like me.

X

3 years had passed since the day I chose to become a coward, the day I saw no tear when my sister told him she loved him.

Did I pretend not to see that? I was ashamed, humiliated and dismayed. When there’s a chance to say those simple words, why didn’t I shout them out loud?

Nobody blamed me for being reserved. Nobody ever would, but how would my late father think?

He must be wondering.

My mother was still sitting in the same position, my sister was talking with some relatives whom I suspected came here just because they were obliged to do so.

I shut myself from them.

“What I’m lacking of?”

“Why?”

“Whose fault?”

Somebody patted my shoulder and I turned my head. It was my sister.

“We still have mum.” She rested her hand my shoulder, as if asking “am I understood?”

I stared into her eyes and I thought she could feel me too. Then, I stood up and we embraced. I told her in my tears how she was always smarter than me, how jealous was I when I saw her and my father, how I failed to fulfill my filial piety, how I became a failed writer and how I wished I could tell her more.

We continued to hug and my tears or her tears or ours trickling down our face as she whispered to my ear,

“We still have mum.”

X

I walked slowly to the slope. There was only one kid there. Now I could see clearly, the kid who always failed to conquer the height was a boy. He didn’t have the rotund face the kid who played the mimosa had.

Strangely, why I was thinking about her again?

It was a cloudy evening and sound of deafening thunder could be heard occasionally. I smiled politely to him, he seemed determined to not to be distracted by any stranger.

He ran again, ready to go up and eventually collapsed to his knee.

Ignored him, I ran up the slope with ease. From the top, I could see the bench where I saw her and her adorable son. There’s a moment I thought I saw that couple again, I was wrong.

“Pop” He fell again.

Standing on the top of this top again, I ruminated over what the pastor had said during my father’s funeral.

“Be brave, my son. Be strong, my son.”

We talked for a while. He was a sensitive man. Sensing my uneasiness and awkwardness in the House Of God where I had forsaken for a while, he approached me and offered me his deepest condolences.

But little did he know, what I was not used to, was not the somber church, but the departure of someone very close. I wished to tell my father I would write good novel again, I wished to tell him I still wanted to accompany him to church. But, it’s all too late already, I realized. I prayed to Lord that my realization didn’t come with such a big price, but whatever had happened already happened.

Kind of succumbed to my fate, I sighed.

X

“Son, do you know how much courage it takes to say I love you?”

“ Do you know courage is just one step before you? Courage is not far from you, courage is not invisible, courage is everywhere, it depends on you. Do you wish to venture one more step ahead?”

“ Courage is driven by fear, do you know that?”

“ Fear breeds from your unsure about what lays ahead of you so courage breeds from fear. The moment you move one step forward, fear disappears. Because you already know there’s nothing to be afraid.”

“ Hence, never be afraid to say ‘ I love you’, never be shy to express yourself in front of people because they both take courage. If you do that, you can laugh at them who are staring at them because you are more courageous!”

I told the kid what my mother had told me when I was young. He was staring at me who stood arrogantly on the top of the slope. I hoped he could understand.

“It takes only one more step, don’t you want to try?”

He stared at me blankly. What he didn’t know was that I would always keep my fingers crossed that he wouldn’t have to go through I had gone through.

He didn’t need to suffer for love as love was supposed to be a suffering. Be brave, my son. Be brave.

X

I took up my pen. Still feeling uncertain, I scribbled down something for my new novel. I hadn’t given any title to his book but I already had a rough idea of it.

Just like the kid, all I needed was actually more faith and courage and my mother let me know it’s not humanly impossible to have more courage.

“It takes only one more step.” What I told the kid was still echoing in my ears.

Maybe, my father might not be very proud to have this kind of slow-learner son, but at least this time, I wouldn’t disappoint him, again.

For Timothy.T (1945-2007)

May You Rest In Peace