Pancake Remedies - April 8, 2011
Chilly breezes shot through all layers of warmth that were stacked upon me. Yet I made my way down the crowded street, walking aimlessly past various stores and buildings, and found myself at a park in one of the city's many squares. My instincts told me to stop and turn around, but I didn't. Instead, I walked up to the immaculate garden of multicolored roses in the center of the park. A sign written in beautiful calligraphy announced the name of the garden to be Bara's Flowers. I sucked in a breath and forced myself not to cry. I had already shed enough tears to last me a lifetime and I didn't want to start again. Mom, a treacherous thought leaked out, are you watching over me? Then, the tears did come and I didn't stop, couldn't stop, until the fresh batch had worn itself thin.
"Woah there. I know these flowers are beautiful but certainly not worth crying..." The voice trailed off as the person who had spoken realized that I wasn't crying over the beauty of it all. I glanced at him through tear-filled eyes and caught glimpse of concerned green eyes and bronze-colored hair worn in shaggy curls around the man's face. "Do you want a tissue?" He amended. I nodded subtly, staring at the sign in front of the garden again, numb and untouched by feeling. All the while, the man scrambled for a tissue and handed it to me. I stared at it for a moment before I realized that the thin white sheet I held in my hand actually had a purpose in this world, and blew my nose with it. I quickly threw the wadded-up tissue into a nearby trash can and hurried back to the man so I could thank him for giving me one. He waved my thanks away. "Tissues are merely objects and fix physical things and an action like that doesn't merit thanking. If you wanted a reason to thank me, it would be if I had found a way to cure your obvious grief." I immediately turned away when he mentioned that and stayed transfixed again to the sign announcing Bara's Flowers.
"Does this garden have anything to do with it?" he asked not quite pryingly, but not quite uninterested either. Once again, I nodded subtly, sure that he wouldn't catch it and that he would eventually give up on talking to me. But the man was sharp. "I see," he responded, "do you know who made the garden?" A stray tear broke loose from the shield I put up and I quickly wiped it away. The man noticed this, too. "I see I hit a sensitive point. Why don't you come drink coffee with me? You'll eventually catch a cold in this weather anyway. It's better to keep warm." He rubbed his arms as another cold wind ripped chances at feeling mildly comfortable in the weather. I had the urge to rub my arms as well, but in that instant, the man took off his trench coat and put it around my shoulders. He only wore a thin sweater underneath. "Shall we go?" He inquired again with a dazzling smile. How could I say no?
Once in the diner, the man asked about what I wanted for breakfast. At the mention of the word, my stomach growled ferociously and I realized I hadn't eaten yet. The man smiled, "Does it bother you if I order for both of us?" When I shook my head, a waitress arrived right on cue and the man recited our order to her. I was too busy staring out the window of the diner to really listen to what he ordered. "Oh, how rude of me, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Eric Sterling. My family's from London." It occurred to me for the first time that this man had a faint British accent. I realized that he was looking expectantly at me and that I hadn't given my own name. "Bara," I stated, "Bara Minoru." His eyes widened in surprise. "So it was your name on the sign, then," was the only thing he commented on. I wondered why, but when I glanced at him I knew. He was patiently waiting for me to open up and he had this kind, concerned air about him that said that all he wanted to do was to help and be pleased with another person's gladness if he did.
"My mom made that garden and wrote that sign," I confided in him for my feelings of pity for the man. "She passed away a few months back but,"-I paused-"to this day, I can't stop mourning over her." Eric nodded, "Ah, yes, the melancholy of mourning: crying and brooding for months on end when we could have spent that time trying to rebuild ourselves and to reconcile with those deaths." Suddenly, he gave me a long, straightforward look that stared me right in the eyes and I was instantly transfixed on what happened next. While Eric spoke, it seemed like my mom was speaking through him as well, as if together they were saying the same thing. "Sometimes it's better to forget our woes and trust whatever higher force there is to take care of it and live life like we were meant to: in happiness." Do this for me, Bara, a voice seemed to whisper afterwards, be happy for me.
At that moment, the waitress brought in our order and I stared down at my omelet-eyed, bacon-smiling, butter-nosed, pancake dish. But, most of all, I couldn't help but laugh.
-Lady Stormparade
