Based on John Steinbeck's - The Pearl. Tried to write it from Juana's perspective.
He asked Juana to throw it away. She gazed at it, the briefest hypnotic trance, before deciding this was something Kino needed to do, for his sake, for their sake. It needed to be done to restore some semblance of sanity to their lives, even if it was just a facade.
She thrust the pearl in his hand as he shirked away, flinching, refusing to touch or even glance at it. But she was determined. It had to be done and Kino had to do it.
Pearls fascinated Juana. She came from a long line of pearl divers, people whose boats were their most prized material possession and pearls, that helped line the King of Spain’s coffers, were what kept their small town clothed, fed and one step ahead of hunger and starvation. As a little girl she accompanied her Dad on pearl diving trips, eagerly awaiting his emergence from the depths, bearing the haul of the day. She could gaze for hours at the lustrous sheen, mesmerized by the distorted reflections she saw on the glistening surfaces, they seemed to be teasing her, tantalizing her. He told her how the pearl, in essence, was simply an irritant, an intruder that changed the oyster forever. She wondered why he never let her keep them, selling every single one to scrape together a living. It was a harmonious existence amongst gentle people who lived, loved feeling the serene music of existence within their sensitive souls.
Now as they stood by the shore, purged of all joy, she remembered her Dad’s fear, his wariness of these glistening, shimmering things of evil beauty. Her life with Kino had been a song, the melody of the earth sung in three simple notes until the day it all changed, forever.
That morning, she woke early and stood for a few moments, watching the dawn’s first light playfully dancing on Kino’s back She turned her head to Coyotito, asleep in his hammock, and gave silent thanks for her blissful existence. She was humming her favorite tune, going about her chores when Kino came up behind her and planted a kiss on her neck. Then, as she lifted her eyes to glance at Coyotito, she saw it, out of the corner of her eye, a scorpion. It was crawling down the rope that suspended the hammock from the beams above. She screamed and pointed as Kino glided across the room. Suddenly awake Coyotito burst out laughing at the sight of his parents, shaking the rope. The scorpion fell on him and stung him the split second before Kino could get there to pulverize and grind it to dust. But the damage was done, she had witnessed the most horror-filled moment of her life. The neighbors came, word about the baby being stung by a scorpion had spread. They stood, paralyzed, not knowing what to do as she ran to the baby and placed her lips on the wound sucking and spitting out the poison. She yelled at Kino to get a doctor and saw them exchanging sad glances. They knew the doctor would never attend to them here.
Juana insisted they walk to the doctor’s house. The townsfolk set out behind them, too distressed to note they had left the brush houses behind and had walked into the stone and plaster city. They knocked at the doctor’s door and asked the servant to fetch his master. The servant came back asking for money. They handed him three small pearls to take back but he returned apologizing, shaking his head, indicating that the doctor was unmoved. Juana had heard them inside, the doctor screaming at the servant, amazed that they expected him to cure insect bites on an Indian child! She heard him remark he was a doctor, not a veterinarian.
They had walked back, steps heavy with dejection and anger. Juana had prayed. She remembered praying the doctor would relent, she had sought the doctor’s help in her prayers not God’s, while Coyotito’s wound swelled. They had set out in their little boat the next morning, Kino wound tight as a whip, ready to strike. She sensed his anger and shame, felt his determination. She had watched him dive and had known it was different this time. He stayed submerged for what felt like an eternity he then emerged holding the biggest pearl she had ever seen. He held it up to her, proud. They rejoiced, their prayers had been answered. Word spread fast. The excitement palpable as everyone celebrated their good fortune, talking about the sums its sale would fetch praying their sudden luck wouldn’t change them. She was swept away in Kino’s excitement as he planned their glorious future, dreamt of making Coyotito a man of letters and of bidding farewell to penury.
The doctor appeared at their door the next day bearing medicine for the child, agreeing to postpone the collection of his fees until the sale of the pearl. The priest who had refused them a church wedding now came a-calling, expressing hopes of charitable donations.
Juana noted Kino’s gradual transformation from protector to fierce defender of not just his wife and child but the pearl as well. She saw him dig a hole by the fireplace to hide the pearl and she saw him take to wearing his knife on his person. His watchful eyes never slept anymore. She recalled the burglary attempts on their home and through her own lack of sleep heard the discordant notes getting louder, reverberating and filling her head until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She asked him to return the pearl to the ocean, she told him it was evil but he refused to listen. He assured her they would sell the pearl the next day, casting off the evil and holding on to the good.
They set off to the market the next day to pit their wits and wares against the pearl buyers’ collusive powers. They were offered a miserable amount – 1000 pesos. An infuriated Kino had refused to sell it for the pittance he was offered and had threatened to take it elsewhere. That night someone tried to steal from them again and Kino was hurt in the scuffle that ensued. Juana couldn’t take it anymore. She extracted the pearl from its hiding place crept out of the house while Kino slept. She intended to return the pearl to the evil depths from whence it had emerged. But as she was getting ready to do this she took an instant to notice a menacing looking Kino right behind her, enraged. He snatched the pearl away from her and struck her with a force that sent her crashing against the rocks. He left her there and walked away. When she gathered her courage to get up and walk back she noticed Kino in a struggle with a man, but by the time she walked back to them, someone had died. Kino stood, staggering, attempting to steady himself and at his feet lay a murdered man. Juana had to think fast, she left Kino there and dragged the man to the nearest bushes and hid him. Fugitives now they needed to leave town, the murdered man would soon be found and trackers set on the trail of the murderer.
They set out in the wilderness, Juana carrying Coyotito in her arms. They walked for miles, hiding whenever they spotted the trackers, climbing up the mountains evading them as best they could. They spotted them in the distance, two men and a horse. Seeking shelter for the night, they found the cave by a lake. The trackers were close now and they hid, knowing it was just a matter of time. Kino was restless. She had always been submissive and knew men. She knew there were no half measures with men, she viewed them as half insane and half god, willing to plunge their strength against the mountains and the seas. Juana knew the mountains would break him and the seas would drown him but there wasn’t a thing she could do. He felt cornered and wanted confront his pursuers and snatch one of their rifles away. He asked Juana to wait in the cave and left. He attacked the trackers like a man possessed, with a vengeance and fury she hadn’t known he possessed. He shot at them while she crouched within and then saw the sight no mother should ever witness, a sight so gruesome, so evil that she was now amazed she was still alive, standing, breathing, walking. Kino’s stray bullet had blown away Coyotito’ s head.
The songs of their soul, the music had been silenced forever. The irritant had left them tainted and changed forever, altered beyond recognition. She wanted nothing more than to see Kino cast the evil back to the darkest depths from which it had emerged as she stood there rocking a blood soaked bundle in her arms.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Boredom
When you commit yourself to a strict regimen of diet and exercise your advisors always tell you to keep ramping up the degrees of difficulty. In weight training they suggest you keep moving up to higher weights. In aerobic exercise you find you can handle higher and higher levels of activity. Each day you find that your body is capable of enduring larger stresses. The same is true for your mind, I suppose.
The problem with me is that boredom with the activity, physical or mental, sets in around the same time as I realize that I am capable of taking on more. Just when I know I can do better I find that I don’t really want to be doing it anymore. I hate this about myself. The discontent, the search for greener pastures and more exciting ventures continues.
At what point will I say to myself that the search ends here? I ask the question knowing that I don't want to get to such a point. It is a strange craving for something you know you don't really want. Someone just showed me a beautiful ghazal which was, in essence, a description of a state of being akin to living in a vacuum and a discussion about the ghazal started moving into an area where I was being told that a vacuum sometimes, is as essential to ones life as oxygen. Our discussion got cut short but I can't help feeling that it would have come close to what, in my own disjointed way, I am trying to say here.
People everywhere are getting along with their lives, living, loving, working, grieving, feeling depressed, feeling momentary joy and then returning to a bland steady state. They tend to a steady state, striving for balance, for equilibrium and no sooner than they get there they yearn for disequilibrium and imbalance again. And we all come up with our own personal philosophies during this journey of life where inevitably, the more things change the more they remain the same.
Then there's this whole business of love, of analyzing love, pondering love, writing poems about love; love lost, love found, misunderstandings in love, in relationships. It is always about relationships, ad nauseam. I am amazed at the numerous poetic renditions of relationship dissections. People love exposing their own wounds along with those of others for all the world to see and I often wonder why. Didn't someone once say - "aur bhi gham hain zamae main mohabbat ke siva"? I keep going back to the frustration I hear John Lennon felt with McCartney's preoccupation with love songs, I identify with this frustration.
Then again, perhaps the transformation is complete - nothing can surprise me now, nothing can cause a ripple in the surface, least of all reading about the angst from being in or out of love.
And this is my blog - I should occasionally allow myself an incoherent ramble or two. So if you stumble upon my blog and this piece of writing someday, feel free to just hit the "Next Blog" button - and move on to greener pastures.
The problem with me is that boredom with the activity, physical or mental, sets in around the same time as I realize that I am capable of taking on more. Just when I know I can do better I find that I don’t really want to be doing it anymore. I hate this about myself. The discontent, the search for greener pastures and more exciting ventures continues.
At what point will I say to myself that the search ends here? I ask the question knowing that I don't want to get to such a point. It is a strange craving for something you know you don't really want. Someone just showed me a beautiful ghazal which was, in essence, a description of a state of being akin to living in a vacuum and a discussion about the ghazal started moving into an area where I was being told that a vacuum sometimes, is as essential to ones life as oxygen. Our discussion got cut short but I can't help feeling that it would have come close to what, in my own disjointed way, I am trying to say here.
People everywhere are getting along with their lives, living, loving, working, grieving, feeling depressed, feeling momentary joy and then returning to a bland steady state. They tend to a steady state, striving for balance, for equilibrium and no sooner than they get there they yearn for disequilibrium and imbalance again. And we all come up with our own personal philosophies during this journey of life where inevitably, the more things change the more they remain the same.
Then there's this whole business of love, of analyzing love, pondering love, writing poems about love; love lost, love found, misunderstandings in love, in relationships. It is always about relationships, ad nauseam. I am amazed at the numerous poetic renditions of relationship dissections. People love exposing their own wounds along with those of others for all the world to see and I often wonder why. Didn't someone once say - "aur bhi gham hain zamae main mohabbat ke siva"? I keep going back to the frustration I hear John Lennon felt with McCartney's preoccupation with love songs, I identify with this frustration.
Then again, perhaps the transformation is complete - nothing can surprise me now, nothing can cause a ripple in the surface, least of all reading about the angst from being in or out of love.
And this is my blog - I should occasionally allow myself an incoherent ramble or two. So if you stumble upon my blog and this piece of writing someday, feel free to just hit the "Next Blog" button - and move on to greener pastures.
Saturday, July 9, 2005
What If...Password Incorrect
“PASSWORD INCORRECT”
Inserting his card again, he typed the password he had always used. He was bewildered. He needed lunch money. He tried once again but it never came back. Instead the digital display flashed:
“SEE TELLER”
“Ma’am, I need forty dollars but my card got swallowed up!”
“Sure your password’s correct?”
“Yes, I’ve never changed it!”
“Let’s take a look. May I see a photo ID?”
He displayed his driver’s license. She glanced up then typed in his name.
“Mr Merrill, you no longer have an account here. You closed it yesterday, withdrawing $20,000.”
“What?? Closed my account? How can this be? I’m here every Wednesday, for my forty. Had no reason to close the account.”
“But you did, sir! Says so right here!”
“You’re not making any sense, why would I try withdrawing money, knowing I’d closed the account?”
“You tell me! I’m wondering about that myself!”
“I’m suing this goddamn bank!”
He stalked out, shouting profanities, masking considerable worry and confusion He was bankrupt, had no other savings. He lived from paycheck to paycheck. Now all his savings were gone! He walked along the sidewalk, numb, the magnitude of the discovery hadn’t quite sunk in. He was incredulous, in denial. There must be a rational explanation. He walked back to his desk at SCENARIOS GAMING Inc., and tried checking his balances online, giving up after several attempts. He logged into his retirement account, thinking he’d solve his immediate problem by borrowing from his future - only to feel the cold terror at the flashing message:
“EMPLOYEE TERMINATED”
What a living nightmare!
He walked into his boss’ cabin.
“Merrill! What happened? Forgot something?”
“What’re you doing back here? Left something behind while clearing your desk?”
“Clearing my desk? Just stopped by to ask if there’s a problem accessing Fidelity. Got a funny message trying to log in, said I’d been terminated.”
“Everything OK Merrill? I know the board’s decision to let you go, on your birthday, seems harsh, but I’m just a purveyor of bad news, equally vulnerable. They’ve offered a healthy severance. They’ll even help rework your resume. I can’t help, can’t do a thing Merrill, think of it as a new adventure, as I told you yesterday. And yes, you can’t access Fidelity, you’re no longer an employee.”
He felt the ground give way. He couldn’t believe it, the horror was unimaginable, beyond comprehension.
He stammered out a response, “W-w-what did you tell me yesterday? You weren’t in yesterday. Worked on the “WHAT IF” project this morning until I decided to go grab a bite to eat. What lay-offs are you talking about, what severance?”
“Merrill, you alright? Need a doctor?”
“No thanks Sean, I’ll be alright!”
“Good luck!”
Dejected, he walked back to his apartment. Carlos, the doorman, wished him a happy birthday and said, “Back so soon, Mr Merrill? I thought you’d be gone for three months!”
“What do you mean, Carlos? I’m just getting in from work, a little early. It happens!”
“But I loaded all your bags in the limousine this morning, you were headed to Ladakh!”
“Ladakh!! You’ve got to lay off the sauce this early in the day, Carlos!”
He walked into the elevator as Carlos stared after him, open-mouthed.
The doors to the ancient elevator slammed shut. Hitting the button for the 25th floor, like an automaton, trying to make some sense of the events of the day, he travelled up. Suddenly a jarring, clanging sound! His eyes flew to the display above as he noted the numbers counting down 24, 23, 22…. the elevator descending with amazing speed! He was trapped, helpless, in a metal box and falling fast. He hit the alarm button, hammering on the walls, the descent showed signs of finality, certain death…darkness.
He woke up with a start, cold sweat running down his forehead, clothes drenched. He looked around the room. His surroundings seemed familiar, down to his Tweety Bird night-light. He was awake, alive! He breathed a sigh of relief. Walking over to the windows, he gazed out, smelling the unmistakable aroma of coffee.
Coffee? Who made the coffee? He lived alone!
He turned around and saw her walking in with a tray.
“Happy Birthday, dear!
Good Morning America did a piece on Ladakh this morning. It was awesome. What if… we were to take a trip to Ladakh? I think we really need the time away. You’ve been too absorbed in work!”
Inserting his card again, he typed the password he had always used. He was bewildered. He needed lunch money. He tried once again but it never came back. Instead the digital display flashed:
“SEE TELLER”
“Ma’am, I need forty dollars but my card got swallowed up!”
“Sure your password’s correct?”
“Yes, I’ve never changed it!”
“Let’s take a look. May I see a photo ID?”
He displayed his driver’s license. She glanced up then typed in his name.
“Mr Merrill, you no longer have an account here. You closed it yesterday, withdrawing $20,000.”
“What?? Closed my account? How can this be? I’m here every Wednesday, for my forty. Had no reason to close the account.”
“But you did, sir! Says so right here!”
“You’re not making any sense, why would I try withdrawing money, knowing I’d closed the account?”
“You tell me! I’m wondering about that myself!”
“I’m suing this goddamn bank!”
He stalked out, shouting profanities, masking considerable worry and confusion He was bankrupt, had no other savings. He lived from paycheck to paycheck. Now all his savings were gone! He walked along the sidewalk, numb, the magnitude of the discovery hadn’t quite sunk in. He was incredulous, in denial. There must be a rational explanation. He walked back to his desk at SCENARIOS GAMING Inc., and tried checking his balances online, giving up after several attempts. He logged into his retirement account, thinking he’d solve his immediate problem by borrowing from his future - only to feel the cold terror at the flashing message:
“EMPLOYEE TERMINATED”
What a living nightmare!
He walked into his boss’ cabin.
“Merrill! What happened? Forgot something?”
“What’re you doing back here? Left something behind while clearing your desk?”
“Clearing my desk? Just stopped by to ask if there’s a problem accessing Fidelity. Got a funny message trying to log in, said I’d been terminated.”
“Everything OK Merrill? I know the board’s decision to let you go, on your birthday, seems harsh, but I’m just a purveyor of bad news, equally vulnerable. They’ve offered a healthy severance. They’ll even help rework your resume. I can’t help, can’t do a thing Merrill, think of it as a new adventure, as I told you yesterday. And yes, you can’t access Fidelity, you’re no longer an employee.”
He felt the ground give way. He couldn’t believe it, the horror was unimaginable, beyond comprehension.
He stammered out a response, “W-w-what did you tell me yesterday? You weren’t in yesterday. Worked on the “WHAT IF” project this morning until I decided to go grab a bite to eat. What lay-offs are you talking about, what severance?”
“Merrill, you alright? Need a doctor?”
“No thanks Sean, I’ll be alright!”
“Good luck!”
Dejected, he walked back to his apartment. Carlos, the doorman, wished him a happy birthday and said, “Back so soon, Mr Merrill? I thought you’d be gone for three months!”
“What do you mean, Carlos? I’m just getting in from work, a little early. It happens!”
“But I loaded all your bags in the limousine this morning, you were headed to Ladakh!”
“Ladakh!! You’ve got to lay off the sauce this early in the day, Carlos!”
He walked into the elevator as Carlos stared after him, open-mouthed.
The doors to the ancient elevator slammed shut. Hitting the button for the 25th floor, like an automaton, trying to make some sense of the events of the day, he travelled up. Suddenly a jarring, clanging sound! His eyes flew to the display above as he noted the numbers counting down 24, 23, 22…. the elevator descending with amazing speed! He was trapped, helpless, in a metal box and falling fast. He hit the alarm button, hammering on the walls, the descent showed signs of finality, certain death…darkness.
He woke up with a start, cold sweat running down his forehead, clothes drenched. He looked around the room. His surroundings seemed familiar, down to his Tweety Bird night-light. He was awake, alive! He breathed a sigh of relief. Walking over to the windows, he gazed out, smelling the unmistakable aroma of coffee.
Coffee? Who made the coffee? He lived alone!
He turned around and saw her walking in with a tray.
“Happy Birthday, dear!
Good Morning America did a piece on Ladakh this morning. It was awesome. What if… we were to take a trip to Ladakh? I think we really need the time away. You’ve been too absorbed in work!”
Friday, July 1, 2005
Christina's World
Their quarrel last night had been scathing, bitter, a furious unleashing of twenty years of pent-up anger and resentment, a ferment brought about by a dragging eternity spent in Schererville, Indiana, where their house was the only one for mile upon endless, dreary mile. Lately Diane had been ridden with anxiety about the best years of her life, fast-disappearing while she stood still, helpless.
She had been a top sales executive at John Deere when she met Robert. She had helped him negotiate a perfect deal and they had fallen for each other as she finalized the sale of tractors for his 100 acres of midwestern farmland. Love often makes one see the world through a loved ones eyes and a life amidst the cornfields seemed peaceful and extremely attractive then. She sold her home in the city, loaded her possessions in Robert’s pick-up truck and eagerly transformed her life at his behest; the stars in her eyes comparable to the wide-open, glittering night skies of Schererville.
This was 20 years ago. Those early years were idyllic, just her and Robert. He had time for her then and they would often go riding together on tractors, enjoying the harvest, picking strawberries, pumpkins, corn. She loved helping him with his bookkeeping and with the management of his extensive agricultural interests. He depended on her wisdom, her business acumen and sought her advice on every matter big or small.
Then came Christina, followed by John and Matthew a few years down the road. Her days were now spent with the children. Robert would come home to a harried Diane with babies at her breast or bent over the stove preparing massive dinners or cleaning up messes that the three kids, especially the rambunctious boys made. He used to come up from behind, trying to kiss her or fold her in a warm embrace but at the end of her day she felt completely drained of energy and enthusiasm; she was gradually becoming a shell of her former self, devoid of romance and too jaded to be impassioned about anything. She would brush him off casually asking him to clean up for dinner, or to help her lay the table or to run some other errand.
An unbreakable pattern slowly emerged, a rut out of which they were unable to climb. Their behaviors were predictable, entirely too familiar, and contempt, we know, is always lurking in the shadows of familiarity. Avoidance, of each other and of their mind-numbing routines, soon followed. And, as is often the case with these things, the distances soon became unfathomable till they were two strangers sharing a roof, an uninviting one, sheltering a bleak existence, amidst a wretched poverty of souls.
The kids were older now. She had given them her best years. Christina a somber eighteen-year old, had always been a thoughtful albeit shy girl who preferred her own company and spent several hours of the day wandering around in the fields. She loved feeding the animals, watching them graze and even helped her Dad with the rather taxing farmhouse chores whenever schoolwork wasn’t too pressing. John and Matthew, 13 and 10, were also quite used to this life. They loved the horses, they could spend hours with them, feeding them, tending to them, and were both expert riders. Whenever Diane looked around she saw a family that was self-sufficient and content with their existence, busy with the business of growing up and no one ever seemed to have any time for her. She dreaded the reality of her growing invisibility. Her discontent colored her existence completely, obliterating all rational thought.
Christina, their oldest, had an empathetic soul. She had always been aware of her Mom’s moods and sensitive to her emotional needs. Lately she had even started feeling sorry for her, but she hadn’t been able to find the words to comfort her. Shyness or perhaps a lack of maturity had kept her from a heart-to-heart talk with Mom. She had always been a big help to a harried Diane, especially after the arrival of John, and Matthew shortly thereafter. She was thoughtful and insightful enough to sense Diane’s unhappiness. Christina was someone who seemed to absorb all the negative energy around her, reflecting only light, and now she could sense impending doom. She felt as if they were all on the verge of disaster.
To say she was concerned would be putting it mildly. She was distraught and felt completely helpless. She wasn’t able to reach Diane on an emotional level; Diane had been shutting herself out to her family members and Christina seemed to be the only one who sensed this or cared enough. She had always been fond of wandering around the wide-open acres, walking seemed to ease her mind. She would walk around observing things, picking dandelions, or just lying down on the grass lost in thought. She used to wonder about their future as a family, the growing distances between her parents, even her brothers who were blissfully oblivious to it all.
The quarrel she witnessed last night had kept her in tears, worried sick all night. Her parents had been yelling at each other. They had both used words as weapons, hammering away relentlessly. They had staked out their positions and neither one was prepared to budge. Their differences seemed irreconcilable. Her Dad had seemed angry and Mom angrier. Several harsh words were exchanged as the kids all cowered under the covers.
Christina was lying in the field thinking about last night’s events, her eyes shut tight, trying to hold back the tears, fists clutching at the grass when she was startled by the jarring noise of a revved up engine. Before she could get to her feet she saw her Mom’s truck speeding out of the driveway. She sat there gazing at the tire tracks for hours, wishing she’d had the words to say something, unable to move, even though she knew she would soon have to brace herself to walk back to the house to offer comfort and consolation and to pick up the pieces of their shattered existence.
She had been a top sales executive at John Deere when she met Robert. She had helped him negotiate a perfect deal and they had fallen for each other as she finalized the sale of tractors for his 100 acres of midwestern farmland. Love often makes one see the world through a loved ones eyes and a life amidst the cornfields seemed peaceful and extremely attractive then. She sold her home in the city, loaded her possessions in Robert’s pick-up truck and eagerly transformed her life at his behest; the stars in her eyes comparable to the wide-open, glittering night skies of Schererville.
This was 20 years ago. Those early years were idyllic, just her and Robert. He had time for her then and they would often go riding together on tractors, enjoying the harvest, picking strawberries, pumpkins, corn. She loved helping him with his bookkeeping and with the management of his extensive agricultural interests. He depended on her wisdom, her business acumen and sought her advice on every matter big or small.
Then came Christina, followed by John and Matthew a few years down the road. Her days were now spent with the children. Robert would come home to a harried Diane with babies at her breast or bent over the stove preparing massive dinners or cleaning up messes that the three kids, especially the rambunctious boys made. He used to come up from behind, trying to kiss her or fold her in a warm embrace but at the end of her day she felt completely drained of energy and enthusiasm; she was gradually becoming a shell of her former self, devoid of romance and too jaded to be impassioned about anything. She would brush him off casually asking him to clean up for dinner, or to help her lay the table or to run some other errand.
An unbreakable pattern slowly emerged, a rut out of which they were unable to climb. Their behaviors were predictable, entirely too familiar, and contempt, we know, is always lurking in the shadows of familiarity. Avoidance, of each other and of their mind-numbing routines, soon followed. And, as is often the case with these things, the distances soon became unfathomable till they were two strangers sharing a roof, an uninviting one, sheltering a bleak existence, amidst a wretched poverty of souls.
The kids were older now. She had given them her best years. Christina a somber eighteen-year old, had always been a thoughtful albeit shy girl who preferred her own company and spent several hours of the day wandering around in the fields. She loved feeding the animals, watching them graze and even helped her Dad with the rather taxing farmhouse chores whenever schoolwork wasn’t too pressing. John and Matthew, 13 and 10, were also quite used to this life. They loved the horses, they could spend hours with them, feeding them, tending to them, and were both expert riders. Whenever Diane looked around she saw a family that was self-sufficient and content with their existence, busy with the business of growing up and no one ever seemed to have any time for her. She dreaded the reality of her growing invisibility. Her discontent colored her existence completely, obliterating all rational thought.
Christina, their oldest, had an empathetic soul. She had always been aware of her Mom’s moods and sensitive to her emotional needs. Lately she had even started feeling sorry for her, but she hadn’t been able to find the words to comfort her. Shyness or perhaps a lack of maturity had kept her from a heart-to-heart talk with Mom. She had always been a big help to a harried Diane, especially after the arrival of John, and Matthew shortly thereafter. She was thoughtful and insightful enough to sense Diane’s unhappiness. Christina was someone who seemed to absorb all the negative energy around her, reflecting only light, and now she could sense impending doom. She felt as if they were all on the verge of disaster.
To say she was concerned would be putting it mildly. She was distraught and felt completely helpless. She wasn’t able to reach Diane on an emotional level; Diane had been shutting herself out to her family members and Christina seemed to be the only one who sensed this or cared enough. She had always been fond of wandering around the wide-open acres, walking seemed to ease her mind. She would walk around observing things, picking dandelions, or just lying down on the grass lost in thought. She used to wonder about their future as a family, the growing distances between her parents, even her brothers who were blissfully oblivious to it all.
The quarrel she witnessed last night had kept her in tears, worried sick all night. Her parents had been yelling at each other. They had both used words as weapons, hammering away relentlessly. They had staked out their positions and neither one was prepared to budge. Their differences seemed irreconcilable. Her Dad had seemed angry and Mom angrier. Several harsh words were exchanged as the kids all cowered under the covers.
Christina was lying in the field thinking about last night’s events, her eyes shut tight, trying to hold back the tears, fists clutching at the grass when she was startled by the jarring noise of a revved up engine. Before she could get to her feet she saw her Mom’s truck speeding out of the driveway. She sat there gazing at the tire tracks for hours, wishing she’d had the words to say something, unable to move, even though she knew she would soon have to brace herself to walk back to the house to offer comfort and consolation and to pick up the pieces of their shattered existence.
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