Ascension
An imaginative composed by Layla (Year 11 Advanced, St Brigid’s)
The soft buzz of the scanner echoed warmly down the hall; gentle, but hasty footsteps, the bumping of keychains and the smell of strawberries followed soon after. The curtains had been pulled open in an attempt to make the room more inviting, calmer, happier.
In a fraction of a second, a short, well-dressed little girl was sitting in the armchair to the right of the bed, her bright blonde pigtails sticking out from the sides of her head, adorned with pink and purple bows. The smell of strawberry hairspray rapidly filled the room like smoke from a freshly lit fire. She held her nana Marie’s hand, talked about all her new classes, her friends, and her favourite art teacher. Marie’s primary years were similar, passing drawings, giggling in the halls, braiding her friend's hair in their lunches. A soft glow surrounded those memories, like the quiet, amber porch light that welcomed her home each night. These were the easy times when nothing seemed to matter, only what book she was reading or what coloured pencils had not broken in her bag.
Next to visit was a much older, but still naive, boy. His hair had grown long since she had seen him last, and he had stubble on his chin that itched when he kissed her forehead. He told her of his new job, the girl he had met at school and how he wished she could have met her earlier, and finally, he told his grandmother how much he loved her, for he knew what was to come. A spark lit in the back of Marie’s mind; she remembered her first love, her only love. She remembered his short orange hair, his array of golden freckles, his grin that showed his shiny white teeth, the buzzing feeling deep in her chest, as if her home’s rusted radiator had suddenly started up again. She remembered her own job, as a cashier at the corner store, how he would walk her home each night, and how they would clumsily kiss under the same porch light in the warm summer heat, her hair sticking to her neck like honey, stretching on her tiptoes in his arms.
After a time, a group of people entered; some smiled warmly, others carried damp tissues. Two members of the party stepped forward and knelt close to the bed. They whispered to their mother like they were young again, as if they were 6 telling her about the worms they had found in the mud outside. They told her stories of their own children; of that same warm summer air she knew all too well. They spoke of their family holidays to the beach, the cold, salty water washing over their babies' toes for the first time, the numerous sandcastles, and the shells that they had collected. Their voices cracked as they talked about how they would miss her, and how they would love her forever until they were deep in the soil of the earth, and even then, after their own deaths, they would continue to love her. They kissed her cheek and smoothed the greying hair away from her closed, peaceful eyes.
Marie remembered that feeling, her two babies brushing her hair and doing her makeup, so she looked like a princess. She remembered when she took them to the beach for the first time, their innocent squeals of excitement when the seagulls chased them down the shore, the faces they drew into the sand with their little fingers, that same smile from the orange-haired boy she had fallen in love with, the boy she had married. She remembered it all: their first steps, their first words, their first day of kindergarten, to their college graduations. She remembered their wedding days and the day each of her precious grandchildren was born. She remembered the person she had been, the family she started, the life she had lived.
Although the room had been empty for some time now, a hand ran its fingers tenderly back and forth across her knuckles. Sunlight entered through the window, and a soft kiss caressed her lips. The same young boy she had met so long ago sat with her now, his hair faded with age and his skin showing lines of a long life, however, the same smile moved across his face when she looked at him. He held her hand in his, the same love in his eyes as those nights under the porchlight, and as she hugged him, the sunlight glowed like fire, engulfing them like moths to that very same light.
Although her body had now grown cold and grey, her soul would live on, in the warm summer air, in the cool salty water, in memories, in stories, and in the family she had loved.
