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ESSAY SUBMITTED FOR COMMONWEALTH ESSAY COMPETITION (written in 1989, at age 15)

TOPIC – Write a short story in which a grandfather, a tree and a musical instrument are the main elements.

Strange. The thought was always the same, every time my eyes centered on the crumpled and disfigured creature that was my grandfather. I always wondered what cruelty fate had ruthlessly dealt to him, to make him such a pitiful, crippled shadow of his former self. In pictures taken before my birth, he had always appeared to be such a vibrant personality with a ready smile for everyone on his lips. What could have possibly erased the laughter from the now dull, overcast eyes? The answer would always evade me.

I was an orphan, abandoned by my father and the only mother I had ever known, was gone. I was taken in by some distant relatives, as was my grandfather – the only remaining link to my past, and although they showered me with attention, it was not and could never equal the love, the bond, the closeness my mother and I had shared. I reminisced about her often, but she was a forbidden topic in my new home. The stoic beliefs of my aunt restricted such talk, and the innumerable questions swarmed, unallayed within me.

I knew my mother’s disappearance affected my grandfather, but I never know how greatly, even with the constant pain visible in his eyes. She had been his only daughter…and my only mother. At last, something in common, a similar suffering, a shared burden…but the gulf between us was still there, the same gulf which isolated him from everyone else. It was his prison, his haven away from everything and anything that could touch him and further shred his battered heart.

He often disappeared during the evening hours, and at first, I thought it was to escape the monotony of his own life, but as his hours grew longer and longer, I began to fear for my frail grandfather. Sometimes, I feared that he would not return so I stayed awake until I heard his familiar shuffle in the still hours of the dawn. In the days that followed, he seemed pale, and almost haggard as if the nightly exploits were sapping his strength. With concern, and mingling curiosity, for my grandfather, I decided to follow him one night.

Before he left, he picked up some sort of black case and before I could possibly imagine what it was, he had already slipped off into the gold and pink sunset. I hurriedly followed, not wanting to lose sight of his diminutive shape.

It seemed we had walked for hours, stumbling in the quickly approaching darkness, for the stars now glistened like diamonds against the black velvet of the night sky. Then he stopped, and I hid behind a clump of grass, my weary body drooping tiredly.

In the clearing beyond, was a tall, slim, beautiful tree, a weeping willow, its feathery branches almost brushing the ground. I saw my grandfather embrace the tree and proceed to remove some kind of instrument from the indistinct black case. Through the dim gaze, I sought to discern its nature, and then the silver moon revealed itself and all was illuminated.

It was a violin.

My silent gasp lodged in my dry throat as he put the delicate instrument to his breast and began to serenade the beautiful willow. The haunting music wreathed itself around my heart and etched its rhythm in my mind. The sensuality of the soft descant touched me to the very core of my being, and through its silvery language, I felt my grandfather’s emotions, his passion and pain, his very soul. I was sure I was intruding. I felt strange to be witnessing this moving scene, his seemingly passionate entreaties to the willow, as if begging forgiveness. I knew I should not be here, I was violating his privacy, but the emotionally charged atmosphere held me captive. Tears trekked unbidden down my cheeks as my grandfather continued the timeless melody. With one more haunting note, he ceased, and the sudden silence was almost oppressive. I turned and began to run, lest he should see me, but not before I saw him slump raggedly forward and press his lips and cheeks to the trunk of the exquisite tree.

All day long the next day, I pondered, my eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, about the specially touching scene I had witnessed so shamelessly. How could my pathetic, crippled grandfather create something of such ethereal beauty, and why? The haunting melody replayed itself in my brain and I shivered. It was all so confusingly strange. My grandfather. My grandfather? But like the innocent child I was, I only saw the exterior, the person he wanted me and everyone else to see, and not the passionate person alive within.

Without further ado, I sped from the house to the clearing of the exotic willow. It was daylight and my eyes hungrily took in everything. I approached the tree and bent beneath its branches to touch its trunk. A surprised breath expelled itself from my open mouth at the sight which greeted me there.

A grave…my mother’s grave.

A pitiful sob was torn from my throat as I stood there, a lone figure, my dam of hidden tears, those tears restrained on all those lonely days, finally bursting forth. My mother’s grave…my mother, oh God, my mother.

As my sobs subsided, I sank slowly to the earth, my head slumped lifelessly between my knees. Hours later, I barely felt the delicate hand that pressed comfortingly on my shoulder. It was my grandfather. He led me out under the stars, clasping me gently to his frail chest. I raised tormented eyes to his, pleading. How could he have hidden this, when he knew that I was also dying inside? She was dead.

Wordlessly, he drew forth his violin and began to make it come alive beneath his skilled fingers, producing the familiar melody. I felt its warm fingers close around me, wreathing me in its gentle peace. I could feel the music absorbing my pain and I grew strangely happy. I walked forward to the tree and pressed my lips and cheek to its trunk…her tree, part of her, as I am.

I clung tightly to the tree, like a lost child and then I felt it…a pulse. It was weak at first, then stronger as the music rose in haunting crescendo, feeding itself into the tree’s lifeblood, beating against my own heart. The memories flooded in, my mother holding me, my mother rocking me…my mother loving me… I was lost, lost in a forgotten paradise.

The music suddenly halted and I raised confused eyes to my grandfather. The pain returned, less than before but still slashing through me as I turned and walked toward home in answer to his wordless request. The haunting music began again. Inexpressibly drawn, I turned, my swollen eyes focusing on my grandfather. His movements with the magical instrument were uncontrolled, almost frenzied as if he were engaged in some sort of struggle within himself. I felt a cold finger of foreboding grip my heart, transfixed by his frantic, oddly dramatic performance. As my eyes met his, the pain that shone there struck me with the force of a physical blow. Shaking my head, silently pleading with him to understand, I turned and fled, unable to cope with the sea of pain in which I was drowning.

The next day, my grandfather did not return. The cold waves of fear rushed back, creating a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. Fearing greatly, what I subconsciously already knew, I proceeded slowly, my feet leaden and my heart heavy, to where I knew he would inevitably be.

My heart stood still as I found him…but there were no more tears left in me. He lay unmoving against the stately tree, his mouth curved in a half smile, his violin nestled at its base, his hands clasped on its trunk. He was at peace, together once more with my mother, free and waiting, waiting some day for me.

My grandfather was buried there the following day. As the pathetically small coffin was lowered into the earth’s warmth beneath the weeping willow, so aptly titled, I clasped his treasured violin, his voice, to my cheek. A memory.

After the funeral ceremony, I walked to the willow and embraced it, longing, almost desperately to feel the life I had felt before. But it was gone and I knew it would never be again. I thank my grandfather for those few precious moments we shared, and for giving me part of himself, part of his soul.

A bittersweet smile touched my lips as I turned and walked away, with the small violin held safely, comfortingly against my breast. A memory, and a memory of memories. A true smile lit my face then. They were free, and soon, soon someday, so would I be.

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