#5 Story: Wind (Cancer, death, and grief)

Here’s my final story! Enjoy:) I plan on fully illustrating this into a short story when I have the time.

Wind

“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.”

– William Shakespeare

**

Death was easy.

Nature breathing life, weaving through this fabricated world that is our reality. With wind as needle and fate as thread, I watched my grandfather be sewn into stars. Silent, reminiscent, unsuspecting.

In my hands lay a picture of a stranger, someone I had never known, did not get to know.

Will not ever know.

Yet this was a man, once youthful. I had his blood coursing through the veins of my hand, his whisper behind the folds of my ears. I wondered if my birthmark matched his, I wondered if we shared similar hobbies. My grandfather was just like me: real, raw, and wretched.

Yet his picture in my hands had white wrinkles for creases, reflected a ghostly image of the ceiling light.

What does it mean to grieve for a stranger?

**

The wind rises.

On the steps of a Beijing temple on April fourth, rows of silver incense stood solemnly in a copper ashtray. Through the early summer sunset, strands of faintly woven silk glowed a soft silver as they spiraled into the air.

These candles would burn for another thirteen days.

Sandy gravel seeped between cracks of a holly wood table, dusted on wreaths of vases brimmed with white chrysanthemums. Pearly plates adorned with fruits lined the edge of the altar. A monochromatic photo of my grandfather, illuminated by flickering candlelight under the temple roof, sat motionlessly.

Our eyes met.

I held his gaze, backed away outside.

Soles slid smoothly over sand; his grave lay before me in tufts of blond grass, still in the summer breeze.

The edges of my chalky dress caught wind. It tore apart the seams of sky and collected them in a bundle of fabric. The thread would catch weaving needles of drafts, tugging, gathering, until released by a brush of my hand.

My mother unwrapped a pack of thin joss paper, thumbed about a third and left me the rest. She lifted a small grey lighter and set the stack alight. Hollow tears in her eyes, tinted gold from the flame.

The ashes felt warm at the tips of my fingers. They flaked off as I clasped my palms together, carried away with the next current.

I allowed it to pass me by.

**

The phone call.

He has Cancer, my mom said.

Tears in the kitchen. First class tickets. Bags packed by that night, ready to go the next day.

Demarcation lines dulled by rain; grey jacket dimmed beneath clouds. The downpour drummed against the train platform and a million swaying umbrellas. Fingers curled around the soggy leather handle of my own, knuckles cold and white – wisps of coal black hair laundered against my forehead.

The train was filled with soft chatter, bustling with rows upon rows of people. Golden lights swayed soothingly, wafting the smell of fresh baked pie. This glow illuminated upon vibrant dancing faces as they laughed among each other.

In the warmth of the cabin, my mother’s gaze was cold. The swirling colors circled her pupil, emptied into the drain of her iris. She sat across from me, near the window, where rain plummeted against the bright glass pane. The musty, dark scenery was barely visible from the spirited light inside – but she pressed her face against the surface.

The cupola was open above us, gusts of wind braided shivers into my hair.

Mind closing that down? a man asked. My mother made no effort.

When I pulled at the edge of her coat, she looked down at me with rage. I knew though at the early age of ten what hid behind that anger, but I didn’t dare peer too far.

The wind howled, swirled, churned up a storm with my mother as its eye.

Trapped, inside our cabin.

**

My grandfather passed away around four years ago.

After retiring from being a history college professor he spent most of his days investing in stocks. He would eat all his microwaved leftovers before that screen, the only exercise being an occasional trip to the bathroom.

For the last forty years of his life, he practiced nothing but the same routines. His home was a tiny condo on the outskirts of Beijing; the sixth floor with no elevator. Me and my mom would wave at him out the windows, then carry our suitcases up the stairs; steps thin and tall, I rubbed my rubber sandals into the concrete.

His door had two layers, the first thick iron bars, twisted into flowering patterns. Underneath, any average wooden plank with an upside-down poster of the Chinese character “fu.”

Be polite, my mother would say. She’d place a stern hand on my shoulder, brows lightly furrowed. Say your blessings.

However, my grandfather never opened the door. When I pounded on the thick oak surface, my grandmother would always be the one to greet us.

I’d beam and bow, then follow my greeting with compliments. My grandmother would crack a brilliant smile, one of curves, folds, and creases so warm my face would end up flushed. Her laugh was golden filling of steamed buns, soft skin of dumplings, flowering embroidery, and a warm blanket rubbed pale. Come on in! She’d say, It’s far too cold outside.

She’d then call for my grandfather through thin walls to notify him of our arrival.

He would say nothing. Among the gaps of my grandma’s sweater, I could see his back turned – within arm’s reach. However today, he seemed farther than ever.

My grandfather was like a shadow within his own home. When the sun retreats beneath its horizons, his silhouette shall melt away with the darkness.

I wondered if the wind had blown, he would’ve been swept off his feet.

**

White lilies sewn like patches on thin ripples of water.

Leaves of lotus threatening to spill over boardwalks, the lake hidden from view. Morning fog set in, toning the park to a lesser hue. Faint dewdrops glossed the soles of our shoes, rustling against budding strands of grass. Cicadas choired past distant chatter carrying the fresh smell of a local flea market.

Sunlight struggled through tufts of cloud, bare tendrils slithering around tall willows. Wisps of leaves collected like gold coins on tangles of ashen soil.

While we played, my grandfather would rest on the bench by the lakeside sallow. He’d hunch over his body, weathered sweater motionless in the wind; staring at darting slivers of fish in the translucent water. Wisps of thinning grey hair drifted weightlessly; red brimmed eyes hooded by overlapping scars of age.

My grandfather was present, yet simply not there. You wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t tried. Within peripheral vision he disappeared into the scenery, feet rooted further than the earth could follow.

Years later, we returned to see that the willow tree had been removed. All that was left was a stump, rings encircling its core.

The air was still.

**

Sunlight grazed the matte glass table near the entrance of a small temple. The glow struck brilliant colors against translucent material, illuminating what was left of the room. Spiraling wood carvings curved delicately into gloriously decorated ceilings. Though the shades were dulled with age, surface textured with splinters, the paintings formed like constellations at the back of my mind.

The wind had never blown so softly before, uplifting crumbled leaves smoothing against glittering pavement.

It had been a week since my grandfather passed away.

I walked with my mother, arms intertwined, along a paved stone road. My boots molded around the shape of each rock, slipping, shifting, sinking.

Things come as they go, my mother had said.

The rest went unspoken. She crumbled down into the folds of my wool scarf, filling the creases with her body. Air drifted around her limbs then silently smoothed away. Silent, reminiscent, unsuspecting.

And so, the wind falls,

Easy as it began.

**

What does it mean to grieve for a stranger?

Distant, the wind replied.

Like my grandfather in the stars.