EMBER
trois ono
Under the silver moonlight, I saw a glowing ember at the heart of the village. Its fiery body spread first to the right, consuming the landlord’s home and robbing it of its former grandeur. Then to the left, the fire voraciously danced upon the innkeeper’s and the shanties of the farmers who had nothing but their house to give.
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In more prosperous times, the village I overlooked was filled with roaring laughter, and I could even appreciate the disputes between vexed neighbors and the landlord. I’ve watched millions of the humans walk past me, not even glancing at my arms stretched out, shielding them from the scorching heat of the sun. Now, all proof of life has been replaced with screams of terror.
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Gradually, whether it was due to a successful escape or an irrevocable end to life, the screams died down. The blaze approached me with unabashed confidence, hissing and crackling, and I knew of my demise.
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As the vigorous flames engulfed my greenery, my roots only tightened, holding my aching body steadfast. With pure desperation, my branches reached for the moon’s aid, only to be mockingly danced upon by the relentless fire. My fibers were now exposed, and what was coarse but turgid was now only brittle. This was the end.
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In my last moments, I hoped to provide comfort to the people for one final time. I hoped that though their whereabouts were unknown, somehow this dwindling ember, my warmth, could reach them.
WITHERING MEMORIES
I remember our trip to New Zealand with your father. I keep a photo of Frances carrying the Koala with you in my wallet. But I seem to have misplaced it.
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I remember the day we went to see the fireflies, darling, how they twinkled in your eyes. We laughed and chased their glowing butts, your tiny feet barely catching up to mine. See, I remember.
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I remember when we held your Uncle Harry’s birthday party. That look of shock on his face, I cannot forget. You made him a gift – a heartfelt portrait, am I right?
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I remember the grainy sand between my toes and the smell of salt wafting in my direction with every grand wave. Shrieks of laughter, just me and my mother. It took ages for her to catch her breath.
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I remember watching Julie Andrews on screen. I was envious of her angelic voice and her emerald green eyes, how she wore the boyish haircut with so much elegance. On our way home, Frances and I sang Edelweiss to the baby in my belly.
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I remember cold showers at the Fairmont hotel on our honeymoon, my goosebumps fading with his golden touch as he put my mother’s necklace on for me.
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I remember mean girls at school always pulling back their eyes, stretching them into lines. None of the seven of us were tough enough to defend ourselves, except for Harry. It was always Harry.
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I remember when my mom set me up with the boy next door, Frances. We weren’t aliens anymore. He was a good man who gave me a good son. You should meet him next time.
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I remember the warm sun on my side in Manzanar. Harry held my hand to school, even though my fingers slipped from our sweat.
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I remember the song that made me drift off to sleep, a certain softness to each syllable that no language could replicate.
I remember my mama’s hot honey milk tea. Can you make it for me? Harry? Where is my mama? Who are you?
Trois is a senior in high school and an avid reader with a passion for visual and literary arts. She indulges mainly in poetry and non-fiction works and loves writing while immersed in her eclectic taste in music. From Ryo Fukui to Alex G, she listens to all genres and is open to anything. She considers writing a hobby but would like it to be her career as she often envisions herself in a publishing company or out in the wild as an investigative journalist. Trois finds herself reading and taking inspiration mostly from Kazuo Ishiguro, Mieko Kawakami, and Kurt Vonnegut. Her current favorites are authentic pho, jelly nail polish, oat mocha, and Piero Piccioni.
Pinterest: @francoiseono