I have
always been resourceful. That is why when my dead Grandmother left us with her
old china, I begged for it to solely be inherited by me. With this china I had
big plans. Appreciating art- although I do not consider myself an artist- is a
pastime one could only imagine to be awakening to the mind, senses and the soul
(apparently). But I'm not sad or poetic enough to be that person. Mostly I just
like to enjoy art because patterns and designs are easy on the eye and I admire
the simplicity in looking at something beautiful without having to understand
why it is so or how it came to be.
Four
thirty seven PM is when we were given the morose news that unfortunately
Grandma had passed away. Instinctively, tear ducts should swell, words of
nostalgia should be exchanged as well as familiar hugs from Aunts and Uncles.
But the truth is, she had always been a bitch and the family were all in a secret
mutual agreement of this, but she was ill so 'couldn't help it' when she did
something awful. Like that time she put her false dentures in my Coca Cola, or
when she told my mum that she was a mistake. Ah, sweet reminiscence. She had a
remarkable set of china plates though so my forgiveness is granted, Rest in
Peace Grandma, forever in our hearts- that’s usually how it goes. Now it is
four forty two PM and the plates are in my possession; there is a plan brewing
in my head.
There are
sixteen plates in total, each in an immaculate condition. Their edges are
refined and curl up almost imperceptibly. When I look at these satisfying
edges, small glints of the light refract into my eyes, temporarily blinding me
from their delicate architecture- but I continue to analyse them in awe them
because I am a perfectionist and I love that the plates are not splintered or
broken in any way, canvases of radiance. Although there are patterns on these
plates, it is merely around the edges in a crimson and gold entanglement. The
pattern is not intricate but is just as powerful in its own candor manner. Only
millimetres away from my vision are the plates now, but I am still questioning
the impalpable serenity of them when-
"Chels," I am startled by mother’s
crow-like call of my name, "maybe stop acting up like... this... before
dad comes home. You know he's taking crap from his boss and he won't like your
shit spread out across the kitchen."
"Dad's with a blonde woman, remember. Not
at work" I retorted.
Sallow
and yellow in the face, mum retrieved the cigarette from behind her ear that
she had planned to smoke, lit up and left me basking in my victory. She was
discontent with my remark, I think. It’s the eighty seventh time I have
informed her of Dad’s affair with the blonde woman who wears a short pencil
skirt at his office, and Mum didn’t even believe me the first. The draught from
the back door she has just opened agitates my naked arms, the thread-like hairs
on them stood alert and impatient. When it is cold, arm hairs tend to do this
because air is a bad conductor of heat. Thus when it is cold, erector muscles
connected to your hair contracts, standing them on end and trapping air between
the layers to conserve as much heat as possible. It is for this reason that I
prefer to hibernate inside throughout most of the seasons and why I am going to
take my china plates to my bedroom where I intend to nourish them and keep them
safe.
To carry
each plate individually upstairs took me sixteen times ascending and sixteen
times descending the stairs. The staircase consists of thirteen steps which
means I climbed four hundred and sixteen stairs altogether, which is an even
number and is oddly satisfying. My bedroom is a box with whitewashed
walls, some cheap furniture from IKEA and a camp bed tucked into one of its
corners. It lacks personality, doesn’t offend and has no opinions or objections
which perhaps is why I seek solace in it. All I am going to do is mount the art
I have acquired from my dead grandmother onto my wall. That is the ingenious
plan. The brilliance of it is that it is so simple yet its impact will be
entirely colossal since my bedroom is sort of dismal. Usually I am not
comfortable with change but in this instance, I am.
As I am
affixing the sixteenth and final plate to the nail I have hammered into my
wall, there is a constant pick pick pick sound from beneath my room and
I have just noticed that one of my plates is not adjacent with the others. Dad
should be home just about now but he is sure to knock because that’s his
routine. At nine minutes past five his old Toyota chugs into the driveway, and
then he unfastens his seatbelt, puts the stereo in the glove box and knocks on
the door at eleven minutes past five. Out of curiosity and unease, I reassure
that we are not being burgled and peer from the landing. The door is slightly
ajar before my father emerges inconspicuously from behind it. Without his
realisation of my eyes upon him, he saunters quietly past the living room and
upstairs, his head down all the while until he reaches the last step where he
is confronted by my feet. Then my legs. Then my shoulders. And finally he meets
the expression- I’m not quite sure of what- on my face.
Grey and dishevelled, his hair is untidily
arranged in a position that it was not before he left for work this morning.
There is a lingering aroma, trying furtively to evaporate, that smells sweet
and bitter like a woman’s perfume- but it’s not the one that mum wears. He
isn’t wearing a tie either and If I correctly recall, which mostly I do, he did
have one this morning. I remember because it had circles and crosses on it that
I used to pretend to play noughts and crosses with. But I can’t associate that
with the tie anymore because it is about to be replaced by something new and destructive.
Now I remember why I do not like change.
“Mum, I told you I wasn’t lying.” I say. She
appears at the stairs phantom-like, pasty and thin against the dimly lit
hallway shadowed by winters outside sombre nature. Unlike me she carries a
heavy expression on her face at this unfortunate sight.
Shortly
after this, I feel that I am supposed to leave before there is an eruption of
spite, malice, bad language and possibly violence. This is inevitably
going to happen so my bedroom retreat is a safe haven for now. I am counting
down to detonation before I switch on my radio. China girl by David Bowie is droning
alongside the ruckus downstairs:
I could
escape this feeling, with my China girl
I feel a
wreck without my, little China girl
I hear
her heart beating, loud as thunder
Saw they
stars crashing
I'm a
mess without my, little China girl
Then a
resonating “FUCK YOU!” followed by the slam of the door that oscillates through
the entire house, leaving seven out of my sixteen china plates in a pile on my
carpet.
I am not
bitter. I am not resentful. I am not angry. I am just excruciatingly neglectful
of anything that my brain tries firing at me.
And then
I let go. I should feel pretty pissed off but it’s too hard to be angry when
there is such beauty still to be discovered. Sometimes you see it all at once,
overwhelming. And then you see the remaining china plates ample on the wall and
breathe. And beauty in simplicity can be awakening, if only you should seek to
find it.
