“But behind my back I always hear,
Time’s winged Chariot drawing near.”
- Andrew Marvell
“Brother, what’s leukemia?” The little girl asked.
Five miles away from the nearest town in the middle of a meadow, surrounded by tall grass stood a small house. In this small house lived a mother, a brother and a sister.
Now the twelve year old boy’s face held astonishment in every inch as he looked into his little sister’s innocent eyes.
“What’s leukemia?” The girl persisted. Her huge blue eyes blinked in confusion, her heart shaped face cocked to one side, her soft dark brown tresses cascaded over her shoulder like a waterfall.
“I don’t know.” The brother mumbled, looking away. “Where did you hear it?”
“The Doctor said I have it.”
* * * *
“I deeply regret saying this, but your daughter has barely a few months left to live, unless immediate medical assistance is provided.” The Doctor said tonelessly, used to delivering bad news everyday.
“But the expenses –“
“As you know, it is not in my hands.”
“Then I’ll take care of her at home.”
“So be it.”
* * * *
The father had abandoned them. The boy had been just five then. The girl, safely encased in her mother’s womb.
He had taken the money and the jewelries, but worst of all, he had taken away their happiness. The two-roomed quaint, little cottage stood forlorn in the middle of nowhere, its chimney puffing out wisps of smoke. Years of standing against the raging North Wind had brought it to the end of its tether. Tall green grass grew all over the undulating land, carpeting it in a layer of lush green. Half a mile away was a grassy knoll that overlooked the placid blue waters of a small lake. Early in the morning fog settled over the entire meadow, like God’s icy breath.
The furniture inside was old, the curtains – moth eaten. The original wallpaper was unrecognizable. A small bed, a table, a chair and a bookshelf were squeezed into a room, barely leaving space to walk. A little girl lay on the bed beside the window, gazing out with glossy eyes at the setting sun. Her back was propped up on a pillow. The clanging of utensils came from the kitchen – if you could call it that – where the Mother worked frantically to prepare warm soup for her daughter, before she left for her night shift at the hospital. The rotting wooden front door was heard creaking open and the little girl’s eyes lit up.
“Brother’s back!” She scrambled to get off the bed. “How was your day at school?”
“Hush! Get back on bed!” Her mother called as she appeared from the kitchen with a bowl of steaming hot soup. A moment later, her brother dragged his feet into the room along with his disheveled hair and second hand school uniform.
“I survived,” he said and sat on the edge of the bed, at her feet.
“Can we go to the hill? The one overlooking the lake?” The girl asked excitedly.
“No.” The mother said firmly, keeping the bowl on the bedside table. “You’ll catch a cold.”
“Please, Mom? Brother can come with me.” She pleaded, her blue eyes brimming over with expectation.
Mother sighed. “Fine. You’ll go with her” She motioned towards her son. “And take your blanket.” She handed over a purple blanket covered with fuzz balls from being repeated washing.
* * * *
They climbed over the knoll hand-in-hand. The boy strode calmly ahead, his hand firm around his seven year old sister’s, who wobbled behind on thin legs. The blanket was wrapped around her like a cloak.
They stood atop the knoll, the highest place for miles around, feeling on top of the world.
The setting sun coloured the sky in hues of orange and red, casting tall myriad shadows behind them. Everything in vicinity was covered by a soft red. The dark blue water of the lake was momentarily disturbed by fishes jumping in and out.
“The first snow…” The girl breathed.
“Hm?” The brother asked.
“I want to see the first snow of the year. It would fall here, wouldn’t it? It’s the highest spot.” She looked at him, her skin tinted a light shade of pastel in the dying light of the sun. Her blue eyes glistening like the icy water of the lake. Her dark tresses blew across her face in the wind, casting light shadows over its beautiful contours.
What a beautiful woman she could’ve turned into one day. If only Life had given her a chance.
The brother smiled sadly to hide his tears. “Winter’s almost two months away,” He said. I wonder if you’ll make it till then..
The unspoken words hung heavy in the silent chasm between them
* * * *
As the days passed, life changed. The Sun rose and set. The mercury level dipped, the usual fogs thickened. People in the city required more firewood. The chimney’s puffed more than a chain smoker. Schools shut down for the winter and people scurried to reach home before nightfall. The winds grew more persistent and the trees shed their leaves to prepare for winter.
In a quaint little cottage five miles from town, the curtains were drawn apart. The North Wind raging outside threatened to rip away the roof which was already falling apart. The dying fire in the fire place did deplorably little to raise the temperature. Nevertheless the house was warm, lit only by a mother’s undying love and a brother’s unwavering care. The little girl lay on the bed swathed in a purple blanket, flanked by pillows on all sides. Twinkling stars pierced the velvety dark night sky.
It was the eve before Christmas. The now thirteen year old boy sat on a chair beside the bed. He looked at his bed-ridden sister. Her once heart shaped face had now lost its pleasant form. Her skin was pallid. Her eyes were sunken, cheeks – flushed. A wet towel covered her burning forehead. Her limbs were thin, the veins standing out. Of her once dark, waist length lustrous curls that overflowed the pillow, only a thin stream remained. Her chest heaved up and down as if every breath was a struggle. But even the thinning hair, the pale face, the lifeless limbs could not take away the fire burning in those blue eyes. They kept scanning the sky, almost as if waiting for an angel to tread down and take her away.
The Grandfather clock ticked loudly in the background. The mother kneeled down beside her daughter, taking her frail, cold palm in her hand. A knowing smile passed between them as the three of them sat together in silence, waiting.
As the clock struck twelve, the first flake of snow descended from the heavens and sailed silently downwards. The North Wind blew it miles across the meadow, over grass and lake, to a quaint little cottage five miles from town. The lone flake continued its downward journey, bobbing along towards the open window. Watery blue eyes watched it as it as it made its way inside, skirted around the fluttering curtains, trailed down and fell into a small, frail outstretched palm.
“The first snow…”
The girl clenched her fist around her treasured possession and encased in the warm rays of love and self-fulfillment, fell asleep.
* * * *
Morning dawned, bringing along with it a spirit of festivity. The fog lightened and people in the town stepped out of their houses in the warmest of clothes to shovel the carpet of snow on the sidewalk. Icicles formed from the rooftops and every breath misted.
In a quaint little cottage five miles from town, a little girl lay still on a bed. But her cheeks were no longer flushed, her palm no longer clenched, her body no longer warm, her breathing no longer laboured, her blues eyes closed in eternal slumber.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, The Angel of Death had stooped down and taken the little girl away in her arms, away into the mist, into the heavens above from where the snow fell, while boy and mother wept silent tears.
* * * *
Nobody ever visited the lone grave atop the knoll. But if they did, they would see the following inscription :-
“A lily of the day,
Is fairer far in May.
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.”
* * * *
For the thread of life may knot and fray,
Six feet beneath her lifeless body lay,
A beautiful story every family has to tell,
Atop the knoll where the first snow fell.
* * * *