Storytelling
I clearly
remember him coming to me, sitting beside me, talking to me. There are times
when I question my own memory about her. But she gave me a beautiful seashell
once and to this day I have kept it on my windowsill.
There was a drawing of an exquisite
seashell underneath that single paragraph that Flory wrote a few days before.
She looked around in wonder, but the wooden tables around her were empty. There
were never many visitors in the reference section of the library, and that was
the main reason why she had been spending so much time there lately. It was the
perfect hiding place for all the tears she did not want anyone to see.
She had come previous Monday to bury
her frustration in the musty smell of rows of dictionaries. She sat at the
corner table and built a fortress of thick books around her. Then she began to
cry silently.
The weekend trip to the beach was
suppose to be fun, she thought, angrily wiping her tears. Instead, it did not
take long before her mother and father started quarreling again. Flory spent
Saturday night with her head buried under the pillow, but still she could hear
her mother and father yelling insults each other. Flory had managed to pretend
that everything was all right the next morning. But she did not show up for her
eight o’clock class a Monday. She came to the library to weep instead.
Afterward she had idly written that
single paragraph, that beginning of a story that seemed to have nowhere to go.
She does not even bother to bring the paper with her when she left the library.
It was still there to days later, in the same place, between the yellowing
pages of an old copy of a Webster’s dictionary.
Except that a lovely drawing of a
seashell had mysteriously appeared under her last sentence, a teasing, inviting
puzzle. Flory gazed long at the picture, her lips slowly curving into smile.
Then she picked up her pencil and scrawled another paragraph under the drawing.
-
It was a
moonless, starless night when I met her. I had come to the beach to drown my sorrow
in the rising tie and the roaring waves. My parents had been fighting again and
their shouting had driven me out of the house. I waded into the shallow waters
and thought about how those waves had touched so many shores. I thought that
maybe if I went with them I might forget my miserable life. Then suddenly I
felt a coll, wet hand touching the damp trails that my tears had left on my
cheeks. “Don’t cry.” a little voice come to me.
The unknown artist later drew a
beautiful picture of a little boy and mermaid sitting side by side on the rock,
surrounded by the white sprays of wives crashing on the stone. The mermaid was
done beautifully, with large, exotic eyes that seemed to shine with compassion.
The boy was staring at the mermaid with awe and disbelief, implied in their
linked hands touched Flory’s heart and put smile on her face.
She was tempted to bring the paper
with her so she could look at the wonderful drawing whenever she wanted to, but
her curiosity won and she wrote yet another paragraph.
It was the
beginning of my friendship with the strange, but lovely creature that called
mermaid. Yet what I remember the most about her is not her look. It is her
tender and caring voice, her laughter that soothed my aching heart, her stories
of life under the sea. We would talk for hours until the eastern sky began to
grow light and the stars turned pale. Then she would kiss me softly before
sliding into the water. I waved at her until she disappeared among the waves.
It was the most beautiful memory of my childhood.
More beautiful drawings of the
little boy and the mermaid appeared under this long paragraph and on two more
sheet of paper stapled to the first. In one picture the boy was shyly giving
the mermaid a bunch of flower. In another he was playing a flute while the
mermaid seemed to watch admiringly. There was also a large drawing of the boy
and the mermaid staring at an open picture book under the beam of a flashlight.
Flory stared for a long time at the
pictures, amazed and thrilled to see the story bloom in such an unexpected way.
Her curiosity about the artist grew stronger with each drawing. Once or twice
she stayed for hours in the library, hoping to catch the person. But even after
she lingered there until the library attendant told her they were closing, the
artist never show up. For the first time since she began coming to the
reference section, she wished there were more people in it.
-
I did not
know to say, I could not even weep anymore. We sat there in silence for hours,
my hand in hers. Finally I managed to croak, “I am leaving.” She nodded, urging
me to go on. “My parents are divorced… separated. Mother is taking me with her.
We are going to live in grandparent’s house in another town.” I turned to look
at her, my voice falling me. My next words were only whispers. “it’s in the
mountains, far from the sea. I can’t see you anymore.
Flory put down
her pen and closed her eyes, a drop of tear rolling down her cheek. She put the
paper on top the nine page of beautiful drawing interspersed with her
handwriting. It was nice, she thought, this game of storytelling. It had taken
her mind away from the growing tension and hostility at home; it had helped her
find a reason to go, to wake up in the morning and go to campus. But everything
was over now: the game, the life she had known since childhood, her family.
This semester would end the week after, than she would have to arrange for
transfer to another college in another island. She would not have to listen to
her parents shouting at each other anymore. But she would not be able to see
her father either. Flory closed the old Webster’s dictionary and rose to live
the library.
-
Flory was sitting in the cafeteria, an
untouched plate of gado-gado in front of her, when someone suddenly slid
into the seat across the table from her. She was about to look up when a piece
of paper was put on the table beside her plate. Flory surprised look at it,
then she gasped.
In that picture the mermaid was in
the water, looking up and there was smile on her face. Her hand was
outstretched as she gave a big, beautiful seashell to the boy, who has still
sitting on the rock.
Flory raised her eyes from the
picture and gave the boy across the table a wide-eyed, disbelieving stare. The
boy returned her gazed with a smile.
“She was saying
‘Don’t be sad. You will meet other friend and you will be happy again. Keep
this to remember me.”
Flory bit her lower lip and stared
at the drawing again, her hands trembling. Her voice was unsteady when she
spoke again. “And the boy was saying ‘thank you,” She look across the table, “I
will not forget you.”
The boy smiled.
“Hi” he said. “I’m Dino.”
Flory laughed slowly. “Hello Dino.
I’m Flory.”
“I know,” said
Dino with a wide grin. “I’ve seen your name on the library card. I help out
there, you know, indexing the catalogue and returning books to the shelves. I
don’t suppose you’ve ever notice though.”
“No” Flory
whispered. “I’m sorry. But I did notice your drawing though. You are… bliriant.
And you seem to.. know my mind.”
“I was never
very good with words” said Dino. “I’ve wanted to speak to you since section and
found you crying in the corner. But I didn’t know what to say.” He look away
for a while, as though searching for words. “But when I found your last
message, I felt… I need to see you, to let you know that you’ll be all right.
It’s not going to be easy, but you can do it. You see, I come from broken
family too. I know hoe it feels.”
Flory stared long at Dino’s
reassuring smile. “Will the boy meet the mermaid again?” she asked in whisper.
“Of course.”
Dino’s voice was as gentle as his eyes.
“Thank you.”
Flory said.
I clearly
remember him coming to me, sitting beside me, talking to me. There are times
when I question my own memory about her. But she gave me a beautiful seashell
once and to this day I have kept it on my windowsill.
There was a drawing of an exquisite
seashell underneath that single paragraph that Flory wrote a few days before.
She looked around in wonder, but the wooden tables around her were empty. There
were never many visitors in the reference section of the library, and that was
the main reason why she had been spending so much time there lately. It was the
perfect hiding place for all the tears she did not want anyone to see.
She had come previous Monday to bury
her frustration in the musty smell of rows of dictionaries. She sat at the
corner table and built a fortress of thick books around her. Then she began to
cry silently.
The weekend trip to the beach was
suppose to be fun, she thought, angrily wiping her tears. Instead, it did not
take long before her mother and father started quarreling again. Flory spent
Saturday night with her head buried under the pillow, but still she could hear
her mother and father yelling insults each other. Flory had managed to pretend
that everything was all right the next morning. But she did not show up for her
eight o’clock class a Monday. She came to the library to weep instead.
Afterward she had idly written that
single paragraph, that beginning of a story that seemed to have nowhere to go.
She does not even bother to bring the paper with her when she left the library.
It was still there to days later, in the same place, between the yellowing
pages of an old copy of a Webster’s dictionary.
Except that a lovely drawing of a
seashell had mysteriously appeared under her last sentence, a teasing, inviting
puzzle. Flory gazed long at the picture, her lips slowly curving into smile.
Then she picked up her pencil and scrawled another paragraph under the drawing.
-
It was a
moonless, starless night when I met her. I had come to the beach to drown my sorrow
in the rising tie and the roaring waves. My parents had been fighting again and
their shouting had driven me out of the house. I waded into the shallow waters
and thought about how those waves had touched so many shores. I thought that
maybe if I went with them I might forget my miserable life. Then suddenly I
felt a coll, wet hand touching the damp trails that my tears had left on my
cheeks. “Don’t cry.” a little voice come to me.
The unknown artist later drew a
beautiful picture of a little boy and mermaid sitting side by side on the rock,
surrounded by the white sprays of wives crashing on the stone. The mermaid was
done beautifully, with large, exotic eyes that seemed to shine with compassion.
The boy was staring at the mermaid with awe and disbelief, implied in their
linked hands touched Flory’s heart and put smile on her face.
She was tempted to bring the paper
with her so she could look at the wonderful drawing whenever she wanted to, but
her curiosity won and she wrote yet another paragraph.
It was the
beginning of my friendship with the strange, but lovely creature that called
mermaid. Yet what I remember the most about her is not her look. It is her
tender and caring voice, her laughter that soothed my aching heart, her stories
of life under the sea. We would talk for hours until the eastern sky began to
grow light and the stars turned pale. Then she would kiss me softly before
sliding into the water. I waved at her until she disappeared among the waves.
It was the most beautiful memory of my childhood.
More beautiful drawings of the
little boy and the mermaid appeared under this long paragraph and on two more
sheet of paper stapled to the first. In one picture the boy was shyly giving
the mermaid a bunch of flower. In another he was playing a flute while the
mermaid seemed to watch admiringly. There was also a large drawing of the boy
and the mermaid staring at an open picture book under the beam of a flashlight.
Flory stared for a long time at the
pictures, amazed and thrilled to see the story bloom in such an unexpected way.
Her curiosity about the artist grew stronger with each drawing. Once or twice
she stayed for hours in the library, hoping to catch the person. But even after
she lingered there until the library attendant told her they were closing, the
artist never show up. For the first time since she began coming to the
reference section, she wished there were more people in it.
-
I did not
know to say, I could not even weep anymore. We sat there in silence for hours,
my hand in hers. Finally I managed to croak, “I am leaving.” She nodded, urging
me to go on. “My parents are divorced… separated. Mother is taking me with her.
We are going to live in grandparent’s house in another town.” I turned to look
at her, my voice falling me. My next words were only whispers. “it’s in the
mountains, far from the sea. I can’t see you anymore.
Flory put down
her pen and closed her eyes, a drop of tear rolling down her cheek. She put the
paper on top the nine page of beautiful drawing interspersed with her
handwriting. It was nice, she thought, this game of storytelling. It had taken
her mind away from the growing tension and hostility at home; it had helped her
find a reason to go, to wake up in the morning and go to campus. But everything
was over now: the game, the life she had known since childhood, her family.
This semester would end the week after, than she would have to arrange for
transfer to another college in another island. She would not have to listen to
her parents shouting at each other anymore. But she would not be able to see
her father either. Flory closed the old Webster’s dictionary and rose to live
the library.
-
Flory was sitting in the cafeteria, an
untouched plate of gado-gado in front of her, when someone suddenly slid
into the seat across the table from her. She was about to look up when a piece
of paper was put on the table beside her plate. Flory surprised look at it,
then she gasped.
In that picture the mermaid was in
the water, looking up and there was smile on her face. Her hand was
outstretched as she gave a big, beautiful seashell to the boy, who has still
sitting on the rock.
Flory raised her eyes from the
picture and gave the boy across the table a wide-eyed, disbelieving stare. The
boy returned her gazed with a smile.
“She was saying
‘Don’t be sad. You will meet other friend and you will be happy again. Keep
this to remember me.”
Flory bit her lower lip and stared
at the drawing again, her hands trembling. Her voice was unsteady when she
spoke again. “And the boy was saying ‘thank you,” She look across the table, “I
will not forget you.”
The boy smiled.
“Hi” he said. “I’m Dino.”
Flory laughed slowly. “Hello Dino.
I’m Flory.”
“I know,” said
Dino with a wide grin. “I’ve seen your name on the library card. I help out
there, you know, indexing the catalogue and returning books to the shelves. I
don’t suppose you’ve ever notice though.”
“No” Flory
whispered. “I’m sorry. But I did notice your drawing though. You are… bliriant.
And you seem to.. know my mind.”
“I was never
very good with words” said Dino. “I’ve wanted to speak to you since section and
found you crying in the corner. But I didn’t know what to say.” He look away
for a while, as though searching for words. “But when I found your last
message, I felt… I need to see you, to let you know that you’ll be all right.
It’s not going to be easy, but you can do it. You see, I come from broken
family too. I know hoe it feels.”
Flory stared long at Dino’s
reassuring smile. “Will the boy meet the mermaid again?” she asked in whisper.
“Of course.”
Dino’s voice was as gentle as his eyes.
“Thank you.”
Flory said.
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