Hidden in plain view in the family home are memories that come alive with a small gesture or subtle touch. For a few seconds, minutes, hours even, long-departed loved ones breathe, dance, and smile again. But the memories inevitably fade, and all that remains is the unbearable sensation of being all alone.
. . .
“Goodnight, mama.”
“Goodnight, my love.”
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Luna Rose.”
“H-how much?”
“How much what?”
“How much do you love me?”
“Eres mi mundo, mi amor… You are my world, my love.”
. . .
Grandpa’s bent-over figure is framed by the ornate arched doorway. He doesn’t say a word, but I know he senses my presence on the other side of the threshold—watching, waiting.
“Come, Luna Rose.”
“Good morning, Abuelo,” I answer softly as I make my way over to him.
The drab, musty smelling room is wallpapered floor-to-ceiling in faded pastels, and old wooden toys encrusted in cobwebs and chests full of long-retired clothes clutter the creaky floor. It used to be the nursery where my aunt and mother slept as young children, but is now more of a junkyard room of sorts. Abuelo is standing over a timeworn crib with intricately carved wooden slats and a lumpy mattress edged in scalloped lace. I half expect there to be someone in the crib, but when I crane my neck to peer between the slats there’s only a chewed-up teddy bear missing one of its glassy button eyes.
“Closer,” Abuelo grunts, his eyes still fixed on the invisible being in the crib. I edge my way beside him, so close that I can feel his ragged breaths sending currents of warm air against my neck.
“Now close your eyes, Luna Rose,” he whispers, placing a gnarled hand overtop mine.
I do as my Abeulo says, and when I reopen my eyes the junkyard room has transformed to the almost unrecognizable. The once-tired walls are now alive with vibrant blues and pinks, and crayon drawings pinned knee-high; painted dolls and tin soldiers litter the floor in little heaps.
“Look,” says Abuelo, pointing to the crib.
To my amazement, where only a moment ago there was a tattered, one-eyed teddy bear, there now lies a radiant infant swaddled in plush blankets. The child opens her eyes—a startling yet familiar golden amber—and looks up at us curiously, playfully, mischievously even. There’s a twinkling to Abuelo’s eyes, and a smile dances at the corners of his mouth… for the first time in what feels like months. I don’t know if it’s the lighting, some trick or my state of shock, but my Abuelo seems to have transformed too—standing beside me now is a middle-aged man with a full head of hair, broad shoulders and a contented air about him.
A gentle cooing draws my attention back to the crib and I return my full attention to the baby, admiring her already-luscious black hair and her small, pudgy fingers that are curled into miniature fists.
“M-m-mama?” I whisper.
Abuelo sighs, letting his infant daughter wrap her fingers around his giant thumb. “Yes... Si. Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She is.” I want so badly for this all to be real, but I know it cannot be. This scene, this moment in time, is nothing but a conjured memory—one that’s not even mine—and I suddenly can’t bear to look into my mother’s eyes, so full of life and hope.
“Bye Abuelo,” I mutter, already heading for the door. My grandpa doesn’t reply, lost in the memory of his beloved daughter. I do not have the heart to remind him that she is not really there.
. . .
I look in the mirror and see my mother staring back at me—her rosebud lips; her soft, caramel skin; those searching amber eyes.
Her playful smile works its way across my face: I am my mother’s ghost.
. . .
I don’t like going to the piano room where Grandma stays shut up all day, everyday. But today is my turn to visit, and I’m armed with a platter of weak tea and burnt tostadas. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we didn’t all come to her; perhaps she would starve to death.
The door is unlocked and I enter with no problem. The piano room is about the size of our home’s main parlour—which is to say it’s surprisingly large—but unlike it, the only contents are the grand piano, the piano bench, as mall side table off to a corner… and my Abuela. She’s sitting at the piano, fingers gliding across the keys, and I don’t dare to disturb her.
“You are late, Luna Rose. It is a quarter past twelve and you normally come at twelve o’clock sharp,” she lectures, somehow making the round sounds of my name as sharp as right angles.
“I’m sorry, Abuela, I was talking to Grandpa,” I reply, setting the tray down on the side table.
Abuela takes a long sip of tea before complaining about how it’s too sweet for her liking.
I ignore her and turn to go, desperate to escape the piano room, but my grandmother has other ideas and attempts to block my way with her cane. I turn to face her, fully expecting a lecture about respecting my elders or something, but Abuela only smiles and pats the empty space beside her on the cushioned piano bench.
“Sit, Luna Rose.”
I hesitate momentarily before complying, and as soon as I do, the piano room transforms before my eyes. The tiled mosaic floor glistens anew and the dust that moments ago blanketed the grand piano has vanished as if wiped away by invisible hands. But the most noticeable change (by far!) is the little girl who now sits on the piano bench, sandwiched between Abuela and me. She is five, six, seven at most, with high pigtails and plump, rosy cheeks. She does not seem to notice my presence, her attention fixed on a younger version of Abuela—jet-black hair, impossibly straight posture, same pinched features.
“Again,” clucks Grandma.
“I don’t want to,” my mother replies. “Can I go play now?”
“If you are to be a famous pianist, Marietta, you must practice!”
“But Mama, I don’t want to be a pianist when I’m older.”
“Well, what do you want to be?” replies Abuela, rapping the piano keys with her knuckles.
“A ballerina!” exclaims my mother, bouncing up and down on the piano bench.
“Enough! You are to play this piece for the recital–otherwise I’ll have your sister do it.”
“Fine. Sofía would be better at it anyway.”
“Come on, Marietta, just play it one more time.”
The sound of Brilla, Brilla Estrellita—Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star—fills the room as my mother plunks away and Abuela grins victoriously.
“I wish… I wish I hadn’t been so hard on her,” Abuela whispers in my direction. I refuse to meet her eyes.
“It’s okay, Abuela,” I reply, trying my best to sound reassuring. My mother plays on, seemingly oblivious to our whispers.
“Maybe if I hadn’t argued with her she wouldn’t have—”
“Stop!” I yell, unwilling to face what comes next.
“Luna Rose, what—”
“I have to go now, Abuela. I’ll come back later with dinner,” I cut in, this memory now too much for me to bear.
Before Abuela can stop me, I rush out of the room and let the door slam shut behind me. Within moments I hear Abuela’s playing commence anew.
. . .
Even before my mother’s passing, Tía Sofía preferred to keep to herself. Now, my aunt seldom leaves her room in the attic. Sometimes when I’m bored I like to visit her (which is often nowadays) and play with her makeup in front of the gilded vanity mirror. My aunt doesn’t seem to mind these intrusions, although most of the time she’s quietly immersed in her vast collection of paperbacks or in the midst of trying to write one.
Today is one of these times, and presently I find myself climbing the stairs to her attic. Reaching the landing, I take a moment to catch my breath before swinging the door open. Tía Sofía is sitting cross-legged on her four-post bed, nose buried deep in a murder mystery and a box of chocolates at her feet.
“Oh hi, Luna Rose, how was mama today?”
For a second I freeze, my mouth slightly ajar, thinking my aunt’s talking about my mother. But then I realise she means my Abuela.
“She’s…uh… her regular self,” I answer truthfully.
“Stubborn as ever?”
“Yes, very.”
Tía Sofía nudges the box of chocolates with her foot. “Want one?”
“Thanks,” I say, taking three.
Our conversation clearly over, I make my way to Tía Sofía’s vanity table and begin experimenting with her eyeshadow and blush. Perhaps I am a little old for this, but it is a way to pass the time—and believe me, when you’re bored there are many hours to fill in a day. I throw on a mink coat and a half a dozen silk scarves and prance around the room to the half-hearted, distracted applause of my aunt. After a while I grow tired of the game and throw myself on Tía Sofía’s bed, waiting for her to laugh or perhaps tell me about her book. But she doesn’t seem to notice me, appearing to be lost in some faraway thought.
“Are you okay, Auntie?” I ask nervously. She doesn’t say anything, but her head bobs ever so slightly. I reach for her hand and as I clutch her slender fingers in mine they morph into the plump digits of a young child. In shock I let go, only to look up and see a seven- or perhaps eight-year-old Tía Sofía. She is wearing thick tortoise-shell glasses and her round face is framed in a halo of frizzy brown curls. My aunt’s lavish four-post bed has somehow transformed into a plain wooden bunk, and I have to be careful so as to not bump my head on the rough planks overhead.
Tía Sofía is bent over a first edition, leather-bound copy of The Wizard of Oz, seemingly oblivious to everything around her—including me. Silence fills the room, disrupted only by the occasional soft turning of pages.
“Hey Sofía, what are you doing?” And just like that, the silence is shattered—an upside-down, mischievous-looking face peers out over the top bunk.
“Reading,” says Tía Sofía, clearly a bit annoyed.
“Reading what?” persists the raven-haired girl, who looks to be a few years older than my aunt.
“The Wizard Of Oz.”
“Should I come down now?” teases my mother, as I realise this is yet another memory—this time, my aunt’s.
I remain glued to the bed, transfixed by a discussion between two sisters I know so well and yet hardly recognise.
“Uh, I’m okay.”
A playful smile spreads over my mother’s face. “Is something wrong, Sofía?”
“Marietta, can’t you just leave me alone?” whisper-screams my aunt, normally so demure and patient.
A few seconds pass before those unmistakable amber eyes peer out again from above. “Do you want a chocolate, hermanita…little sister?”
“Dark chocolate?”
“Is that a yes?”
A slight nod of Tía Sofía’s head.
My mother grins triumphantly, and in a flash she’s beside me and Sofía on the bottom bunk. From up close (and right-side up), I’m keenly aware of my mother’s striking beauty—similar but different than in Abuela’s memory. My mother must be around thirteen now, a teenager. How many years does she have left—sixteen, seventeen?
“So, what’s wrong, sis?” encourages Marietta, offering Sofía a chocolate wrapped in dark blue foil.
“Nothing.”
“Come on, I’m your big sister. I know when something’s up.”
“You wouldn’t understand, Marietta. You don’t know what it feels like to not be perfect, to not be mama’s precious jewel.”
“Don’t say that, Sofía, please. You know that’s not true.”
“Really? Who gets to be the star of her recitals? Who’s going to be the great pian—?”
“Don’t you dare, Sofía! Don’t you know what mama’s like? Do you think I want to be her little puppet? Do you think her dreams are my dreams?”
My aunt is speechless, and my mother’s not done anyway. “Do you know why I keep practicing? Keep being her precious jewel? To protect you, Sofía. For you! Always for you!”
“I’m sorry,” murmurs Sofía.
My mother inches closer to Tía Sofía, both of them seemingly unaware of my presence. “You’re just trying to change the subject, Sofía. I know this isn’t what’s really upsetting you.”
“I-I just had a bad day,” mumbles Sofía.
“Why? Who hurt you?” my mother replies, her instinct to nurture and protect strong even then.
“I felt a bit alone at school, that’s all,” Sofía whispers, fidgeting the pages of her book.
“I want names,” says Marietta, her amber eyes narrowing.
My aunt sighs heavily and shuts her eyes. Instinctively, I close mine too.
“Your mother, she was always so stubborn. Even more stubborn than your Abuela in some ways. Marietta always thought she knew best.” By the tone and deepness of her voice, I know that it’s the real Tía Sofía talking. I don’t even need to look.
Not knowing what to say, I wait for my aunt to continue.
“I wish your mother would have told me… maybe I could have helped,” Tía Sofía says, speaking more to herself than to me.
And then, silence.
. . .
Often, after dinner, Mama and I would walk through the untamed gardens, arm in arm. She would point out the colourful songbirds flying overhead, and she’d tell me the names of all the flowers in bloom—from the sweet-smelling jasmines to the brightly-hued poppies to the clusters of Spanish lavender swaying gently in the wind. Sometimes she’d tuck a golden sunflower behind my ear, a prairie rose in her braid.
. . .
Papa’s study is situated in the southwest tower overlooking the gardens. It was once a games room, before my father laid claim to it when he married my mother. It’s peaceful there, so far removed from the rest of the house. And although the gardens now are pruned and manicured, the ivy-covered tower remains much like my mother preferred—and, in fact, much like her: wild, unkempt, beautiful.
Although my father’s study can be accessed by one of the house’s main hallways, I’ve always preferred taking the back entrance: a wrought iron spiral staircase that’s only partially protected from the elements and thus alive with climbing vines, mosses and trapped leaves. The staircase ends at a small landing and a peeling Dutch door, the top part propped open as usual to let in fresh air and the occasional songbird. I knock at the door and, hearing no response, let myself in.
The large, circular room is a mess of ink-splattered paper and once-prized antique furniture, and the walls are crowded with family portraits and black-and-white photos where everyone stares on, unsmiling. I pace through the cluttered space searching for my father, but he is nowhere to be found. Finally, I come across the door to the balcony, partially obstructed by towers of yellowing paper and thick, leather-bound volumes. The door hinge is extremely rusty and I need to push hard on the door to get it to open.
My father is standing at the center of the small balcony, swaying gently to imaginary music.
“Hi Papa,” I say, but my father does not seem to hear me. I place a foot hesitantly over the threshold, readying myself to join my father in his memory.
Papa is dressed now in an impeccable black silk suit that fits his tall, angular form perfectly. His long brown hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, no longer greying; his green eyes even more striking without the dark bags underneath. A beautiful woman in a crimson dress spins around and around as Papa twirls her with an outstretched arm. Her laughter, light and clear as birdsong, fills the air and steals mine. It is my mother as a young woman, blossoming right before me.
The balcony is aglow with the warm light of a wax candle lantern, its flame flickering and dancing to the evening breeze. A slow piano tune plays softly from a record player inside my father’s study. My parents go round and round in an endless carousel of legs, laughter and chatter. It is actually sickening to watch, this memory that is not real—no longer, anyway. But still I stare on, unable to look away.
“Papa, you have to let her go,” I whisper.
“I can’t,” answers my father, almost helplessly.
“You have to, Papa. I need you.”
“I love her.”
“I know,” I say gently, tugging at his sleeve. Slowly, my father takes a step back, reluctantly letting go of my mother’s hand.
We stand there, watching my mother dance alone, her crimson dress billowing—climbing—about her like a whirlwind of wild prairie roses.
I pull my trembling father over the threshold and back into the study. Papa holds me tight and I can feel his tears warm on my neck.
“I miss her, Luna Rose,” says my father, his sleep-deprived eyes fixed on the spot where my mother had been dancing just moments before.
“I do too,” I respond, burying my head in his shoulder. “Every day.”
. . .
Mama is still here. In the songbird’s lilting melody and in the wild roses that climb the tower walls. She is in my Abuelo’s pride and Tía Sofía’s silence. In my father’s longing and my Abuela’s persistence. She lives on in my reflection and in the shadows and memories that lurk in every corner of this old house. Ella es nuestro mundo… She is our world. She is my world.
Myah Rathi is a grade 8 student who lives in Toronto, Canada. She loves to read books--primarily mystery and fantasy novels--and preferably with a cup of hot cocoa. Myah's favorite part of writing stories is creating fantastical worlds for her characters to inhabit. When she's not reading or writing, you're likely to find Myah doodling, trying to sing, playing with her little brother Damian, hiding from her little brother Damian, and spending time with her friends and family, including her little brother Damian.
"piano" by tamaki is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
