Mud Birds

Dipping in the mud and jumping in the ponds, your 6 year old self ponders, "Why do I love the rain?"
You don't ask anymore after that.
The inaudible tweets of birds echo through the play-cabin in tandem to the clashes of the sky.
No more kids come out and you feel like the king of the hill. The playground is all to yourself.
"Hey.. it's a bird!" you exclaim as you hear a whistle.
Someone was calling for life in the playground.

The rainy dummy was singing with the wind, the rain not helping you at all.

"...What's a bird doing in the rain?"
"Young one, I am not a bird." The voice replies.
"But you speak bird!"
The voice chuckles through drizzled hair.
"Well... maybe I am a bird. What are you doing here in the rain?" The voice asks you kneeling to your level
"I'm playing! It is fun to play at the rain!"
"'In the rain' you got your grammar wrong." She said dotting your nose.
"I love graham crackers."
"'Grammar' not 'Graham'. It is the placement of words in your sentences." Rubbing your head, she stands back up.

Looking up to her you noticed a tinge of sadness in her eyes. Those weird green circles in her eyes.
"Lady you are crying?"
"How did you know? My face is wet with the rain."
The voice was taken aback by your observance.
"You look sad."
"Don't we all do? The rain makes everything look drowsy and sad."
She said with a sad smile on her face.
"No the rain is fun!"
Thinking to herself she ended up with no clue as to what you are saying.
"Maybe... Let's see?"
"YAY!"
The voice cannot help but stifle chuckles as you partially trip on the wet grass.

You both run around like children in the rain.

“’Of’ not ‘in’”

“What?”
“That sentence earlier? The one you just said.”
“About what?”
“The toy made in wood. It is ‘The toy made of wood’”.
“Oo. Okay.”

The rain made way for a gust of wind to send chills down their spine. His spine at least.
“We should get going. Where is your home? I’ll accompany you.” The figure offered.
“It’s left down from the candyman.”
“The candyshop. Alright.”
The tandem walk to their house
Three years later.

“Hey, Johnny..”
“Hey dad.”
Your father comes from job-hunting, pretty tired yet with a happy face trying to mask the obvious truth to your mind.
“You’re getting good with your art!”
With a hearty laugh he continued
“from your scribbles, I can actually see a face!”
“Daaad!”
He just laughed harder then ever.
“Richard! Come on!”
Your mother scolded him with hands full which fueled his laughter even more.
“Richard, cut your rambling and please -GAH! PLEASE HELP ME!”
“I got ya, I got ya. I told you, one at a time.” Both split the dishes to unload.
“Oh thank you so much.”

You continue to draw the girl as accurate as possible in the same outfit.
A blue skirt, taupe uniform.
Hands possessed by the rays of sun that spotty shine through the window.
The afternoon toasts the curtain with a dusty scent as your mother falls asleep on the dinner table with the newspaper as a cushion turned to the ad’s section.

The brown scent of coffee burns your nostrils as you figure out what to color the hair of the picture.

“Hey… John?” Your father asks you in a lethargic voice.
“Yeah.”
“You want Crayolas or colored pencils?”
You want to answer ‘Both’ but your father’s eyes contrast your bright ones.

“Now, don’t think of the price. I can buy both of them if you want. But I’m not sure how you could combine both of them. Maybe you will think of something? Maybe innovate a new technique in drawing?”

“No thanks dad. These crayons are still good.”

“Ok. But if ever, which one do you want?”

Silence followed as you still can’t seem to figure out what was the best color for the hair.

“Ah wish I was young again. I remember when I was your age...”
“Ugh.. yes dad. You told that to me every bedtime. You draw women every time.”
“Hey, that is ‘woman’ for you short-stuff!” he said ruffling Johnny.
“It was a woman with brown hair and green eyes”
Very familiar green eyes indeed. Your memories wet with the rain of that day give you an uncomfortable churn.
“But that was long ago.”


The Next Day.

“Dear. I am worried.”
“Don’t be, It does you nothing.”
“Ever since that incident three years ago, he has been spouting this thing about this Monika person.”
“So? He’s got a friend! Isn’t that good?”
“What I don’t see good was our son pointing at thin air!”
“Shh. You worry too much, Mary. He’s just in one of his phases as a kid. You know? Imaginary friends.”
“B-But what if he has schizophr-”
“Now Mary, I myself am telling you. You are worrying too much. It’s just one of those imaginary friends. Even I had one about them.”
“But...”
“Shh… It’s fine. Let the kid dream. Don’t shatter his reality yet.”
The flickering lamp only accentuated every point he made.
“Let him enjoy being a kid.”
You slowly retreat to your room and see her as usual. Writing on paper (probably your old Math scratch solutions) with a pink pen, only a faint incandescence from the lamp remains as it’s filament blows.
You push back the conversation of your parents ignorant about their topic. Poetry and literature has been introduced to your interests in contrast to your conquest in conquering the computers.
“Your lamp died.”
“Tsk, that’s too bad”
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” her voice chimed in
“But it’s vacaaaation!” you say in your defense.
“Your vacation’s not an excuse to live unhealthily”
“Pssh, alright”

You slip into your pajamas, stocking away the game system you just pulled out.

“Whatcha righting about?”
“’Writing’ not ‘righting’”
“Okay, watcha writing about?”
“A poem about rainy days. Maybe how fun it could be to play in the rain.”
Thinking back to that nice memory of getting sick after playing in the rain.
“Hmm… I’ll write a short one before going to bed”
“Is that just an excuse to not sleep?” she scrutinized.
“Probably...” he trailed of as he deshackled his mind and controlled his hand.
Minutes passed as he felt lead on his eyes and a small cramp on his foot. Turning his head to his stolen workdesk, not a trace of her to be seen.
Remembering what his parents talked about, it was proven wrong as he set himself up in his bed, kicking the paper and pencil away without any care.
She was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the moonless sky without any stars.
“You’re still awake?”
“Mhmm...” you reply with closed eyes.
“The night sky looks rather beautiful.”
“Does… it? Barely any stars… no moon...” you say muffled by your pillow.
“That’s where-”
You cannot make out what she said after your unshackled mind lost it’s way to dreams.

10 years later. (19 years old)

You just finished studying as the rains pour. Your father barely comes home early and if you are lucky, you see him collapse out of exhaustion.
“Than*COUGH*… sorry. Thanks son.”
You and your mother help him up to the dinner table with cold food.
“I’ll go reheat the food. Johnny, get some rest. You have your exams tomorrow. I’ll handle this.”
Your mother reassured you with a tired smile.

“Thanks… mom.”
“Oh and.. Johnny.”
A long silence.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry about your drawings.”
“It’s fine. I have moved on from that anyway.”
“Keep… Draaaaaawing!!” Your father managed to lift his hand for a thumbs up.

You have now reclaimed ownership to your workdesk, papers now replaced by your gadgets and circuitry equipment. Your drawings no where to be seen. The girl whom you keep on forgetting to ask the name for. You have decided to focus on your part-time job, at least to lessen the burden on your father. Faces have shown themselves for your services and in return is cold hard cash.

The drizzle turned into a downpour as you tried to focus on the broken amplifier your buddy payed you to fix for their practice. You start coughing as, due to your bad habit, the soldering tin’s smoke curled through the lamp. Opening the window, absentmindedly, you are greeted by a mediocre gust of wind and rain. Thanks to your foresight ten years ago, you moved your desk far away from that window.
The rain seemed very, warm and inviting. Reaching out from your window, the rain scratches you with a feeling very vague.

Dismissing the feeling, you cleaned up and cooled down your equipment. Prepared for bed, confident that you will just pass the exams, you doze off.

By the corner of your eye you could swear emerald.

Emerald.

From the words green you have come across-light-green, dartmouth, feldgrau, fern; emerald is what stuck with you. Bright and comforting.

Next color, burnt coral.

Your vocabulary has expanded in describing the describable. From the many shades of colors to the many forms of computer architecture and engineering concepts applied to the real world.
Phrases and jabberwocky that just made sense.

A powered memory of dust emphasized by the currently empty coffee mug on the lamp desk. Zooming of to a dream, you barely noticed the shift of weight on the bed to the edge.

==================================PART2==================================

Finals went good for you, Math always seemed to be your piece of cake while struggle was slightly eminent from the others. Entering the hallway, competition blazes, your fellow students brash around leaving the campus. You too make haste to your house-without an umbrella-with the skies sadder than your professor’s paycheck.
Making a curve back to the playground queued the hardest downpour you ever felt.
Wet papers were at the top of your mind (literally) since you are now face down on the ground after sliding on the mud.
Standing up as the mud washed away from you, you threw your pack to the nearest tree in vain hopes to save your precious books from the rain.

The touch of rain now foreign to you.
Feeling weak from the weight of the water, you chose the comfort of swings instead of the shelter of the trees.
What was it all for? For your parents? Indeed.
Your face falters with the wind scratching your back, sending a cold to your nose.
Through the noise, you could make out a sigh. A very tired yet patient one.

You cannot see anything through the rain, and your blank notebooks are soaking. Resigning to the push and pull of gravity, you swing. The wind howling for attention and the rain slapping you for your ignorance. This was a foreign feeling. Nothing made sense to your mind at all.

“Hey.”
Grabbing a forever blank piece of paper she sits beside you.
“Let’s write a poem someday. I have many stories to tell.”
You saw the rain take shape; this outline fading after a gust threw your mind out.

Ten Years later. (29 years old)
You have landed a job thanks not to your degree but your hard work. You even forgot to bring your mortarboard to your graduation! But none of that matters now. Your mother’s eyes flood in tears as her years of being slightly underpaid have paid off as father’s face reddens as parental tears flow too from him.
You were a happy family.

Finishing your work you go home to a picture frame of your father and your resting mother. Things have improved at least. She has stopped working thanks to your insistent complaints and is now recuperating her strength to at least stand up to tend a bit to the house while you become it’s father.
Will it always be in this never ending tension of give and take? Something to lose to make way for what you gain. This is the slow creepy of change in your life.
You are helping yourself, and your mother to an unknown future that your father has left you to write.

Out in the sun, through the fainted window glass, you see her. Emerald Eyes coaxing you to be a kid for a while. Poems to be written and words to be told, memories to unfold and history to repeat. Defeated from your response, she focuses on writing. Who was she though?

Your mother slightly awake, reaches out to you.
Taking her hand to your grasp, you brought it close it like how she did when you burned your hands on the stove when you were just 6 (because you wanted that spaghetti so badly).
Time moved fast. Too fast for you; slow enough for your mother at least.
You enjoy her company more. At least you try to.
Her wrinkled face pushes a smile at you as you setup her breakfast again ignoring the girl sitting on the sofa looking at your old drawings.

“You have a guest Johnny!”
“What guest?”
“On the sofa.”
“Ma... there is no one on the... sofa?”

Your mother not even thinking about a random stranger in your living room.
“Have some breakfast dear!” your mother says to the figure.
“Thanks, but I don’t need to eat.” the voice said.

“Ma… there is no one on the sofa.”
“What are you nuts Johnny? I know a woman when I see one.”
“The problem is.. there is no one”
“What are you sayin’ Johnny?” your mother was slightly upset. “She’s right there.”
The figure gestured to his mother to just dismiss it with a scrupulous smile.
“Wha… Johnny. I don’t understand. Are you ignoring her?”
“I can’t ignore someone who is not there.” You say preparing your mother’s bowl.

“Johnny, pretty please get me another bowl. For the poor girl there on the sofa.”
“Thanks, but like I said, I don’t need to eat.” the voice patiently replied.
“Aww that’s a shame sweetheart. Johnny’s the best cook in the whole neighborhood. Would be a shame of you not to try some.”

It slightly irritated you to see your mother acting this way, only to feel a tinge of pain and guilt of even thinking about it.
For the sake of good vibes and comfort, you play along.
From the dust speckled rays of sunlight through the coffee stained curtains, pareidolia helps your eyes see a manifestation that faded as you took notice of it.
Hope is what the specter had. The sunlight reflected from her teeth-filled smile.
A bright smile.

“That’s beautiful. I remember when I used to smile like that. Richard would break his back in swinging me up to his arms!” Laughing while trying to catch her breath, your mother continued reeducating you of such sweet times with your father
“Definitely. Saying ‘Mary lose some weight! It’s not like you have much to lose!’”

Your mother’s state contrasts her days when her brain was still reliable. Part of you wants to join the fun but you have convinced yourself over your dead father’s body, dreams keep on dreaming.
You leave the room to fix the overdue roof tiles for the coming rain.
But not before she reaches out her hand.
Grasping it, you reassure her.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Please. Be careful.”

The specter knew why, but if she were to tell you, you would have to listen. But until now, the specter only knows; never remembers.
That beautiful day. The gift to be taken.

One Month Later.
Cold winds and heavy rain to the embrace of the warm incandescence of the living room sprinkled with snores of your mother, you close the door quietly. The faint scent of burnt candle wick and the mud clash in a war of dominance.

Dropping your coat to the pile of rags, ignoring the aforementioned thought of laundry and cleaning, you let the couch embrace you in its old comfort. Your boss has given you another pat on the back, again. Everyone admires your innovations and improvements to the company’s profits. An eye for the invisible could be a term to describe you. As if.
You failed to see the wind carry the paper and pen.
The Television tuned to noise Channel – X reminds you of how life used to be. And how it will be.
Very Perfect Indeed.
Your co-worker has room to improve, your assistant has much to learn more about techniques of the street whereas you have gained them through your journey to the top.
The noise was already deafening, changing the channel was of top priority now.
Only horrible reboots of your favorite classics.
Vainly you turn it off.

The rain now had a different tone. It was heavier; the winds like ice on flesh.

What happened? Were you even in good terms with the rain? Maybe not. The wet comfort of the slight drizzle seeping through the ajar window urges you to read a book.

After reading to no avail, staring at the green excuse for a decoration on the living room table, you grab the guitar beside the couch, trying to play something. Anything.

“Johnny?” You did try to play silent at least.
“Johnny… Thank goodness you’re home! I was worried! The rain is so strong!”
“Mom please rest. Doctor say you need it.” Your eye-bags don’t convince your mother.
“Okay. But Johnny, that look in your eyes don’t mean good. You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
The specter looks at you with pleading eyes.
You want to converse with your mother so badly about these vagabond issues. You are clueless as why they happen and how to solve them.
You also don’t want to strain your mother frail.
“I’m fine. I’m just tired. As always.”

Prying further no more, your mother sighs.

“She says good evening.”
The specter looks up to you with contrasting the living room.
“Well good evening whoever you are.” You say ignoring the two sad nut-cases.
“Oh don’t worry. He’s just burnt out.”

The specter looks away, slightly disappointed.
Indeed you frown, truthful constructed memories resonate with the rain and memories sparkle through droplets on the windows.
Just like that day. That day where dogs were no where to be found, children in wet raincoats behind the skirts of their mothers and traffic has stopped all in all, you sleep in your mothers cradle. You hear them again. Ambulances.
==================================PART3==================================

You come home to a different reality far from what your mother could hear. You can’t even see the piano keys being pressed. You only remember your father’s death from your mother’s state. It wasn’t even his fault to begin with.

Cradling your temple and forehead, you try to contain your cacophonous vexation; letting it pass by since your mother enjoys the event.

“I sure do hope you are enjoying yourself, Mom.” You comment while reading the newspaper.
“Indeed son! This house is just ghosts and dust with just me here.” Happily, she pats her lap to the upbeat rhythm of the 60s piano jingle.

Trying to play her game, you unfailingly sing to the inaudible tune.
“Ha! You sing like your father! Singing like a deaf drunk cowboy!” She chuckled.
The specter laughs slightly losing rhythm
“Pshhh. Excuse me I sing better than my father.” You put puff up your chest with your ego.
“I know, when he is snoring!”
The specter bursts into laughter almost falling on her back from the bench.
“Careful Miss Piano Player, you’re paying for that piano if you break it.” your mother said with a mock-serious tone which failed at quelling the specter’s laughter.

Smiling at the idiocy of the situation, you retreat to your bedroom saying goodnight to everyone after taking dinner. By everyone, you mean your mother.
After doing your nightly ritual, you let the pillows dry your hair as you stare at your once-dirty ceiling. Something there was missing. Posters of your favorite cartoons? Ceiling glowing stickers to help you dream? The Clock? (who puts a clock on a ceiling?)
The adhesive residue marks a testament of your childhood.
Little by little the blue soaks through the wallpapers and the sea of dim floods your room and the memory fades just as fast. You admit defeat to the darkness, turning off your lamp with nothing but the moon to keep company. Until the door creaks.

“Johnny? You still up?”. Tired you answer. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
“Well can I tell you something?” Your hands fold together. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow Mom. Today just wasn’t my piece of cake.”
“Don’t push yourself too hard. Go easy on yourself. When it comes to me, don’t worry much. Remember, I was married to your father.” She smirked.

The joke fell painfully flat.
“Yeah. Goodnight Mom.”
“Goodnight Sweety.”

You fall asleep.

That day, horns were blown. Your mother’s tight and cold arms grasp you. The rain drifted from your forehead as if a tear of sorrow from your baby eyes.
Five years later.

Again, you dreamed of that day. Chilling rain for snow. Christmas wasn’t near, but very blurry were the red and blue lights. Twinkling. You heard fanfares and carols of unsorted notes. Forcibly dismissing the thought, you do your ritual and prepare yourself for another day. Again.

More pats on the back and adoring smiles for you from your boss.

You only notice now that you have been walking the same road over and over again. You don’t worry about your mother’s supplements and maintenance as they are like buying eggs in a grocery. And you go home to see your mother hallucinating, again.

“I don’t tire of that song. Sometimes I hears it, sometimes I don’t. But it sure is good.” Your mother was swinging her hands to the rhythm of the air. “Yeah sure yeah, Good for you.” You proceed to mechanically prepare a meal for tonight’s dinner. Nothing too special. Baked potatoes and vegetable saute was your mother’s favorite (and your childhood’s bane). You still would eat it though.
Assisting your grandmother eat the food especially now that her hands are a bit shaky, your eating is interrupted, again. Someone was warmly smiling behind you. But you shrug it off; despite your grandmother waving at it. Ignoring the non-existent conversation between your mother and the specter, you chug down your soup and chicken in one sitting and gather the dishes to be cleaned.

“He’s very diligent, and committed. I’m so happy.” The specter says.
“That’s my Johnny boy for you.”
“Look darling, you are always welcome in this house. But I still haven’t seen you eat anything from our table! You must be starving. Here let me get you some biscuits.”
“No thanks but I don’t need to ea- Wait! Ma’am! MARY!” Grabbing the biscuit can vainly, she falls with a painful thud. The specter tries to catch Mary to no avail. Her green eyes dimmed.

On queue, footsteps stampeding down the stairs. “MOM!” You were rushing in like a madman into the crime-scene.
“Oh Johnny, the biscuits are too high!”
You cover your face and sigh in relief.
“Please Mom. Didn’t I tell you that if you need something you could ask me for help. What if you weren’t so lucky and ended up breaking something!” worry inundates your words as irked tears trigger from your eyes. Quiet yet smiling your mother helps herself up with your hand. “I’m going to schedule an appointment tomorrow for you and an orthopedic.” With a sigh of an adrenaline low, you continue. “Oh my goodness.” You drink water. The specter stands with her head down, still basking in the glorious uselessness she has displayed herself with.

Time passed and your grandmother has already entered her room and you remain awake in yours. Chasing a horde of thoughts. The door fully opens, breaking what frail thought you have left. “Johnny? You still up?”. Tired you answer. “Yeah. Just… thinking.” The flicker of the light seems very sullying. “I’m sorry Johnny.” The overwhelming urge to rebuke that humble statement surfaced. “Mom, don’t be. You’re old, accidents happen. It isn’t your fault...”
“But you’re sad about it.” “...not really. I just hope that you could rely on me more. That’s… That’s all.” you said scrupulously.

“Well can I tell you something?” Hands fold together. “Sure.”
“I don’t know what I would do without you. You were still a baby. I thought Richard and I would lose you. It’s just been so long.” Kissing your forehead she ends. “I’ll be there for you, I just don’t know how long”
“Ye… yeah.” You have heard this before. Countless times, you would only hug her as she tries to comfort herself from her fears through telling you.

She would stand strong against your bullies and would get into fights with other parents if they dare do something bad against you. But to see her cold hands shake. It gnawed your insides.

That day, sirens were howling, only red and blue lights filled the scene.
Your mother’s tight and cold arms grasp you.
A truth in front of you that you never found.
The cities have stopped for no one and they were no exception.
Cries are heard; their emotion indeterminate.
Fear, awe, suffering and trance orchestrated by twisted metal, broken trees to an audience of chipped glass, stone nuggets and clumps of soil.

You feel your mother’s embrace tighter than ever; almost suffocating.
Your little baby eyes seeing nothing but the white of your mother’s dirty dress, ignoring the foreign scent of blood. The raged breathing of her chest lulled you to sleep, your baby ears listening to the soul’s joyous cries that have now passed on, released from the pain of corporate slavery.