Welcome Home: The Highs and Lows

The Anchor
An empty house. An empty yard. Empty. Hearts filled to ones content with anticipation, future desires, anxiety and doubts. Full. Our dollhouse of a home looked upon us like a mother watches her children leave the nest, wishing them luck tinged with melancholy. Extended family and neighbours fought back tears with swords made of words of encouragements and blessings. Pack bags, last goodbyes and a promise to see each other soon is now a fuzzy memory comparable to a shaken Polaroid or a 1950’s TV set on the wrong frequency. My vision blurred through the tears like a camera’s focus that had gone awry, leaving an indistinct image in the foreground of the photograph. The plane started to crawl forward sluggishly as if it could feel the weight of the anchor buried deep in our hearts, the weight that comes with fear of the unknown. As we defied all laws of gravity, John Denver’s familiar song came to mind Cause I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again, Oh baby I hate to go...

Spring
The entry to our new home didn’t leave much to be desired. Rat infested, steps in which tiny rivers had formed and the smell of the landlord’s cooking, stuck on the walls like gum to hair. Those were the sight and scent of dead dreams, ripped away from my over idealistic imagination like leaves from a tree during dry season, slowly decomposing around my feet. This newfound life full of promises had taken to being a never ending obstacle course in which we were blindfolded. Living underground like termites’ certainly wasn’t what I had anticipated. In this lavish house’s basement, here I lived wishing someday I wouldn’t have to suck in my breath when we went outside, I could sleep without fear of contracting rabies and soon see the sunlight. The sunlight will come, I know. Ma and Pa keep repeating it. I can see their face, fruit left in the sun or in this case the never ending rain. Still fruit after all. Their smiles carried through like a baby’s laugh carries joy to the one who are lucky enough to hear it. Neither sorrow, nor desperation ever came across their face. Stronger than the third house made of bricks. The wolf may have huffed and puffed but Ma and Pa’s resistance could not be shattered. This house made of perseverance, courage, hardwork and a dash of sunlight didn’t falter.

Summer
I felt trapped. Four reflective walls surrounded us as we made our rapid ascent to the 6th floor. My sister, my mom and I were as quiet as a tree falling in the forest when no one is around to hear it. Ding! We stepped out to a darkly lit corridor carpeted with a seasick color; the sounds and smells of multiculturalism lingered in the heavy air. At the end of this hallway, we found a door that screamed with agony when we opened it and was stubborn and even adamant when it was time to close it, in spite of our best efforts. However, this reaction was understandable once we took in the scars, the bruises and the deformations that marked the wood; it had been through a lot and had developed a tough shell. It now possessed an unyielding attitude and only let one in after constant urgings and strenuous work. With all its fault and past baggage, the door still said, welcome to your new home.


Winter
Remember the first snow fall, I was told. Remember how the wind howled as if in pain, how the snow rushed to the ground. Each snowflake apprehending the moment when their graceful reign would come to an end. As they would hit the compact pavement harden by the pressure of the world, a single thought would come to mind, Oh Gravity! Thou art a merciless shrew. Those bits of clouds and angel wings danced in front of my eyes. Awe-filled oohs and aahs, echoed as my family, looking strangely like Michelin men, took the street barren of the city’s sensible citizens. Snow to our ankles, we laughed and giggle all the merry way to the park. A winter wonderland to some or hell frozen over to others, the faded bright colours of the jungle gym was covered with a crystallized duvet that I soon began to erase. I trampled and slid, I jumped and smiled, and I climbed and laughed to the sky. A state of pure bliss, like star-crossed lovers with a happy ending, dawned on me. My new country, my new life, my new sunshine.

Autumn
I entered Madame Gisele’s 3rd grade class; my lungs and heart were taking part in a kickboxing match. My heart was winning, the more it kicked the less I could breath. My mouth had turned into some kind of drainage system for all the moisture dissipated to my palms. I remember the stares, the whispers, the who-is-this-girl looks. To whom the blame goes for instilling the cruel tradition of making the new kid introduce themselves to an audience as judgemental as a Supreme Court Judge, we might never know. However, in that moment I felt a certain aversion for the man or woman who had taken joy in watching frighten children like birthday balloons in the hands of unruly five year olds, squirm like a fly in a silken spider web. The words had pull up a chair at the bottom of my throat and refused to come out. Nonetheless, I stood there shaking as much as a reluctant bride at the altar about to make the biggest mistake of her life. As I cleared my throat and shook the words from their lounging chairs, I managed to answer the only question I was asked for I said, Anne-Cécile. A girl I would later know as Stephanie smiled and I smiled back. One by one they smiled and each bringing a bit of light like candles during the Christmas Eve Mass. Nobody saw my heart smiling back.