Water March

“Make sure to return home before 7 tonight, Callie!” Mom shouts from inside the house as the front door closes behind me.

Our home is constructed from palm-sized slabs of granite stone, layered on each other meticulously. Grandma told me the stones were collected from the volcano twenty miles to the North of town. Unicorns, who once used to grace this land, would transport them from the mountains on their mighty backs. But now they’re gone, migrated closer to the heavens, grandma said. That’s why houses built nowadays are made fully out of lumber instead. I still don’t believe her. 

Our doors and window frames are also made from lumber (like the newer houses) collected deep inside the forest to the North. The lumber in this forest has a dark hue. Grandma says in the forests lives a man who wears a crow-faced mask with glowing bloodshot eyes. He sleeps during the day and comes out at night to paint the trunks of the tree pitch black. That’s why only the trunk lumbers are dark while the branches are normal-colored. To this, I have no counter-explanation and so, I have never dared to step foot into those woods.

The task is simple. I must walk half a day to Lake Eshe, which is East of town. Fill up this 5 gallon water tank. And return home. Before 7 like mom said. Hopefully, with my legs and arms still functional and attached. Thankfully, this is not a task that happens every day, just every other day, which leaves my body time to inhale… exhale, three times, grandma instructed. Sometimes, if it rains, I’ll get the day off and I would throw myself into the imaginary worlds of papyrus crafted by my favorite penpals. Alas, today is not that day.

Per usual, I will visit grandma’s which is on the way to Lake Eshe, around an hour of walking from town. And, if she’s feeling up to it, she would join me. However, lately, her health has been deteriorating quickly. Her body has become frail and her walk a little uneven. The bones of her fingers are opportunistically displaying themselves after so many years of being hidden behind the wall of skin; they look like a delicious caesar salad with bumps of fried onions distributed unevenly, my grandma’s favorite dish. Perhaps, many years of making something can make you become that thing; they do say you become what you eat. Despite the abrupt changes in health, my grandma still beams the same radiant smile. The same angle, the same width, as if a perfect picture frame was being replayed every single time. I wonder when she was younger, did she have the same smile too?

The walk to grandma’s is always the same. The same dirt-paved road painted with random potholes and limestone rocks scattered sporadically along the path. The sides of the road are lined with wild bushes and a few dots of rocks covered in moss. Behind the fence of bushes are a thin veil of elm trees, their leaves coated with a yellow hue. The wind slides through the leaves, singing a comforting tune.

From the bushes, a rabbit darts across to the other side of the road. At times like these, I would hunt it down. Although it’s faster than me, after thirty minutes or so, it will start to give up, tired from the exercise I enforced on it. In a way, I’m almost like a coach, training the rabbit for its eventual marathon. If I’m able to catch the rabbit, I would bring it to grandma’s for her to cook the most delicious rabbit stew one could ever eat. The rabbit, after all its torturous exercise, gets to relax in the sauna that is the pot. But today, my legs are too tired. And so, I watched the rabbit dart away. Being so lost in the memories, before I knew it, I reached grandma’s.

Similar to our house, grandma’s is a construction of palm-sized slabs pieced together into a perfect puzzle board. However, its exterior is less maintained; ivies climb the walls of the house and moss place themselves snuggly around the corners of the abode. This is in contrast to the fastidious care provided to the garden just on the right of the house.

“I’m here, grandma!” I shout lovingly, letting her know of my presence. I wait patiently by the door to await her instruction.

A few minutes passes by without a response. Worried, I walked closer to the front door and knocked. Although there was no response, I can hear the bubbling of the clay pot and a soft humming. A sense of relief danced across my body. I opened the door where I saw my grandma reading the daily newspaper next to the kitchen stove.

“Oh, my dear, I didn’t notice you were here,” grandma speaks soothingly, looking up from the newspaper.

“I’m on my way to the Lake again today. As you know.” I say softly, reflecting on our ironical mirrored timelines. My grandma was once upon a time in the same spot as me. Women are considered trivial and all we are good for is collecting water. While my brothers are learning the ways of the world, learning my father’s blacksmith craft to continue the family legacy. Then one day, I’ll be grandma reading the newspaper. Hopefully, I’ll have an angelic granddaughter that visits me every other day too. And hence, the cycle lives on. “What are you cooking?”

“Your favorite dish my dear, rabbit stew.”

“Oh? Where did you get the rabbit?”

“Liam the stonemason stopped by yesterday night to pay me a visit. He left a beautiful bouquet of white flowers at the back of the house. And with it a rabbit. He placed it on this beautiful golden dish. I felt truly grateful. But a little too much for an old fool like me,” she giggles.

“How kind of him, he was always such a good friend of yours.”

While grandma continues to cook the delicious stew, I patrol the house, sweeping away any signs of dust. Grandma is too weak to move liberally now and so she leaves chunks of the house uncleaned. Once done with the living room, I inspect upstairs where her bedroom and activities room lay. The bedroom is as it always has been. The light shining through the window illuminates all the dust that has accumulated. I quickly sweep away what I can with the short time I have. After all, I need to return home by 7 PM. I wouldn’t want my mother to worry, although she would have a clue that I’m here.

Before I came back downstairs, I meander into my grandma’s activities room. This was the home to my favorite childhood memories. Winter nights, where we snuggled up together, my grandma telling me tales in her soothing and calm voice. The dark sky blanketing over us as if to say there’s nothing to worry about. Except for the steady voice and the stories reverberating within these walls. On the coffee table, my grandma’s knitting needle lies dormant, untouched for the longest time. Dust hugging it tightly as if to protect it from the rest of the world, preserving it for the rest of time. I don’t have it in me to put it away. I walk downstairs.

“I’m heading out soon, grandma. Would you like to come with me?” I queried.

“Yes, I would like to go with you today. But before we leave, let’s tend to the garden, shall we?”

“Of course, grandma, I would never forget to.”

I head out to the garden first for a quick breath of fresh air. Behind me, grandma walks slowly over, her back hunched, carrying a worn-down watering pot. First, we tend to the fruit trees. Persimmons. Apples. Lemons. Picking whatever was ripe and trying our best to spot any unwanted pests. Then, we moved onto the flower segment of the garden. It was designed like an English garden, rather untidily. But there was something freeing about it. The varying colors and heights, although seem to lack structure at first, somehow mesh together into a beautiful gradient. The colors shine together like an orchestra, blasting their fragrant perfumes. We watered the flowers in silence. My grandma believes that during these times, it is best to take in the sounds of nature. The crackling sound of water hitting the soil. The rustling of the leaves. Mating calls from birds hidden behind the veils. It reminds us that love is always there, if you look for it. Once done, we place the worn-down pot at the front of the house and set off on our long journey.

From grandma’s, the walk will take three hours, meaning we would arrive at Lake Eshe at 2 PM. The trail will mostly be the same as the walk towards grandma’s, with bushes lined up on both sides of the paved road. And prairies stretching for millenia on both sides. Today, there is a soft breeze loitering around. The breeze hops in and out of my hair, cooling it from the focus of the rays of the Sun.

Beside me, grandma walks leisurely. Her steps, although uneven, are made with precision and grace. Each stride exudes a mastery, sharp, an art that has been refined throughout the years. Although frail, I’m starting to wonder if it’ll be me or her that is tired by the time we get to the Lake.

“My dear, aren’t the tulips over there pretty? They’re pink just like the color of your cheeks.”

“Grandma, you’re too kind. They are pretty though. Would you like this as a collection of our beautiful garden?”

“Yes, my dear, although it's not up to me anymore.”

I leap through the bushes and straight into the prairie where the pink tulip awaits. The smell of grass bombards my nostrils. A group of nearby prairie dogs pranced away with fear. My eyes trail them for a second. But I quickly remind myself of my task. I gently pulled a handful of pink tulips out of the soil and returned to grandma. I handed them to her, to let her relish in its elegance. To remind her of the scorching pink of my cheeks. Do you think she would remember?

My favorite flower from all our journeys together are the blue moon iris. Although named blue, they actually have a purple hue, or at least some of them. They remind me of my grandma’s favorite dress. She wears them during winter days and on special occasions. The color seamlessly matches my grandma’s skintone. It brings out a certain dignity in her demeanor. I too would like to wear a purple dress like that someday.

“How is your mom doing?” Grandma inquired.

“She’s doing well. She is a little strict on me but I’m sure it is all out of love.”

“I was once a strict mother too,” she chuckled, “I think we all get too lost in the way of life. It finds a way to bound all of us one way or another. It’s only when you’re ready to go… Sorry for rambling. My age is catching up to me.”

“Do we all become more like you one day?”

“My dear, would you like to become like me?”

“Of course, you are kind and loving. You move around with so much grace and mastery. I think you are what makes womanhood worth it.”

“Thank you, my dear. But, I’d like you to imagine a different future. Perhaps, one without me holding you back.”

“Nonsense,” I shrieked. The solitude is getting to me. For a second, grandma was gone. I panic. 

I continued to walk. Slowly my senses came back. The chirping of the birds. The rays of the sun are once again attacking my eyelids. My sweat decorating my skin. The breeze that continually plays with my hair. And most importantly, my grandma.

“I’m sorry for scaring you like that, my dear. But that reminds me, it is time for lunch.”

In the water tank, I take out my lunch for the day. A simple ham and cheese sandwich which I prepared myself. Mother used to prepare meals for me but she says I’m too old now. It is time for me to learn to prepare meals, now for myself, but in the future, for my family too. This is not an idea I’m against. After all, I would like to learn to prepare the delicious rabbit stew of grandma’s. A recipe she’s shown me only through word of mouth. I should probably write it down somewhere at some point.

The sandwich today is a little bland. I tried to lessen the amount of salt as I overdid it last time. In my head, the ham should’ve been more than enough salt for the whole sandwich. But it seems I was gravely wrong. This also makes me wonder if I should add other sauces than just simple salt and pepper. Perhaps, some mayonnaise. Almost halfway done with the sandwich, I quickly realized I did not prepare a meal for grandma.

Feeling a little guilty, I asked, “do you want some, grandma?”

Grandma shot a sweet smile at me, showing her gratitude, “thank you, dear. But you know I don’t need to eat.”

Sometimes, I forget.

As we walked the last hour towards Lake Eshe, we reminisced about our favorite memories. The carols that we composed together around the christmas tree. The day my grandma taught me how to knit up my ripped shirt. Or the Midsummer day we went rowing on Lake Eshe. My grandma recalls them with the same beautiful smile. The way the sun bounces off her hair at the specific angle that I’m looking at makes her glow, just like every other day we walked together down this path. Albeit a lot less common now. I wonder when the last time will be?

We are almost here, Callie. It’s your favorite part of the walk.

“Yes, grandma,” I responded.

At this point of the journey, the bushes and trees fade away. And all that’s left is prairie. Grass and grass, and some flowers, until we reach the lake. This is where we find the blue moon iris. They are a little bit of a tangent from the shortest path to the lake, however. So, we are not going to pick them up today. Besides, I’m already holding a posy of pink tulips in one of my hands.

You don’t want to take a detour today, my dear?

“No, I want to get the water quickly so we can return to the rabbit stew. I wouldn’t want to overcook it. After all, you taught me that it can’t be simmering for more than six hours.”

We walk past a medley of flowers. I wonder how many more of such journeys I must take until I can fill the garden up with every unique flower to be found here. Each one so far stores a memory. But these, it’s hard to imagine there would be any worth remembering.

“What do you think of these flowers, grandma?”

They are beautiful. The lupines over there, for example, are purple and pea-like in shape. It would look great next to a yellow flower like the black-eyed Susan.

“What happens when there is no space left in the garden?”

Then, we just remove the ones that were already there.

At last, we reach the Lake. Cranes stand majestically on the water. Some dive for food with a violent precision one would never expect from such peaceful-looking creatures. The way they move creates an illusion of floatation. When I was younger, I thought the water was shallower than it actually was because of them. I learned the lesson the hard way. Grandma had to drag me out and laughed it off; mother would’ve shouted at me, if she was ever here.

I rushed to the edge of the water and submerged the tank. Just like that, the water gets sucked in. Why is it so simple? I wait and wait for the water to fill up.

You have to do the chant, Callie, to pay respect to all the women who have come before. 

Bless the water, clear and deep,

Bless the women, the paths they keep,

Bless the hands, that bear the strain,

Bless the hearts, that rise again.

“Fine, grandma.” I snorted.

Bless the water, clear and deep,

Bless the women, the paths they keep,

Bless the hands, that bear the strain,

Bless the hearts, that rise again.

Isn’t water such a strange thing? Where does it really come from? The water from this lake comes from the mountain from the North, which was once snow. Women have to make this strenuous march, although beautiful, to get here, to collect it. Only for it to be depleted away. And somehow, the water leaves our bodies and returns back to the sky, in which the gods create rain and snow. Which ends up on the mountain. This infinite march never ends. Yet, we can’t live without it.

I also think about mother, how she has never stood here with me, watching cranes glide over the water. She is too busy, always too burdened by the chores of the day, the watchful eyes of the town. Maybe her strictness isn’t anger, but fear. Fear that if I am soft, the world will crush me. Maybe she laughs when I’m not there, smiles the way grandma does, but I'll never get to see it.

Again, isn’t water such a strange thing? They are coming from my eyes this time. I don’t stop them. They drip and drip, like drip coffee. Is that why this water is so salty? Eventually, they too fall into the Lake. But at that point, you don’t know anymore which water was yours and which one was theirs. Was grandma’s water also in the Lake? And great-grandmother’s? Mother too was here once. Did she, too, leave water behind?

“Grandma, did you ever cry here too?” I mumbled into the soundless air.

Maybe that’s the truth of this lake. It isn’t just snow melted from the mountain, it is every step, every breath, every tear shed by women before me. And sweat too. Perhaps, blood. Yet, I wonder, must the march always be the same? Maybe the Lake too will run out of space like our garden, or my garden now. As grandma says, then, we just remove the ones that were already there.

The tank has completely filled and I’m ready to head back. The posy of pink tulips still in my hand. They will fit perfectly next to the white pasqueflower. I pick up my belongings and begin the long march back. Hopefully, just in time for the rabbit stew to finish simmering. It’s my twelfth time cooking this dish but I can never get it to taste as good. Grandma always says that her secret ingredient is love. Where do I find that?

The walk back is silent, or it has always been silent. But this time, I can feel it. The mating call of the birds sounds pristinely clear this time. And the rustling of the leaves sound almost like a marching army. The wind whistles through my hair. And the sun's rays steam my skin, washing me over with sweat. My legs are growing restless from carrying the full water tank. Each step feels like its own battle. I think of the masterful steps of my grandmother, trying to replicate them. Soft yet sharp. And powerful.

On the way, my eyes continue to look for flowers. The wood lily, a burning red colored flower, caught my attention. They are a rarer find in this area. And the last time I found one, I accidentally stepped on it. This time, I gracefully remove it and add them to my posy of flowers. Another flower that caught my eye was the pearly-everlasting; they are small white flowers with a yellow center. There’s a fleet of them, together forming something that almost resembles a shield. What are they blocking, I have no idea. However, I decide not to take them. That is for the next journey, if there is to be one.

Once I return to grandma’s, I hurry to the garden. Which was paradoxical because the placing of the flowers took a while. But, in the end, I’m quite satisfied. I look at them endearingly, the old and the new merging into one. I wish I could show grandma its development. One flower at a time. Perhaps, she’s watching me right now. Whether or not that’s true, I’d like to believe it is.

I picked up the worn-down watering pot I left in front of the house and brought it inside. The bubbling sound of the stew pot backgrounds the atmosphere. The aroma of the stew finally starts to flaunt itself, rather unabashedly. I empty the watering pot and put it in the drawer. I took a final round around the house to make sure everything had been swept clean in the morning.

Only then did I let myself sit down next to the stove. The newspaper I read this morning on the table. I let a moment of silence pass by, because as grandma says, at times like these, it is best to take in the sounds of nature. In this case, the bubbling pot. I guess that counts as nature.

The rabbit stew for the first time tasted like what I remembered. The same deep savory flavor. The slight hint of garlic and parsley. The overflowing tomato flavor. And the almost unnoticeable trace of sweetness. It’s this sweetness I’ve found so hard to replicate. The rabbit was tender. 

Grandma, I did it, I think I found the secret ingredient. Because you were right here beside me all along.

After my dinner, I clean the pots, ladles, bowls, and spoons. I wipe the windows and make sure they are closed tightly. Leaving it in a good condition. Hopefully, welcoming enough for when Mr. Liam visits here next time.

The day comes to a close. The water tank is full. I return home before seven. And for once, I see my mother smile. Perhaps, it’s because I never looked for it before.

Maybe the unicorns were real after all.

And I hope you are with them right now.