Lemon-coloured Shards of Sunshine

She wore beautiful, velvet dresses. I was always fascinated by her calm, harmonious swing on the always calmly waiting, wooden terrace of the sunny house. All this reminded me of the scale of life, and she was the only person who could be on one side of life sometimes, and sometimes on another; she was the only person, who was far from time and who was not wearing a wristwatch. She taught me how to tell time on a watch; I was listening attentively, and when, filled with enthusiasm, I proudly told her and myself that I had recognized the arrangement of the clock hands at half past six, she asked me in an unusually calm voice never to use a watch. No, this was unusually quiet for me, and she lived with this brilliant beacon all her life. Even now, I see myself clearly, even now I feel my little eyes widen, but I smiled. She smiled at me, too. I keep this moment in my memory as a ray of sunshine and a unique example of sincerity.

I remember her colourful blanket, which was delicately woven of threads of happiness, smile, gold, lavender and dandelions. I also remember, when she showed me a photo of her youth, and regretfully noted that it was black and white, but I could see her cotton-candy-coloured cheeks and blue eyes like the absorbing stream of eternity. I also remember that she stopped my grandfather who was mowing the lawn when he managed to pluck the only poppy, then I saw that she kept it in a small box with a bilious expression and put it on the top of the closet, at the farthest point, so that I have not seen it since.

I have always believed that life is one open book with a thousand characters… many are similar to each other, but she was a nightingale, always different and like a fairy who carries magic dust with her and is loved by everyone. I don’t know about everyone, but I loved her so much. She taught me that when you need a dress for a sophisticated meeting and you have to choose between black and white, you should always choose yellow!

I was always mesmerised by her hair bows that were tucked away in drawers, glimmering gracefully from a curious but forgotten drawer. As soon as her fingers were touching them, both sides were falling into the past at the same time and the pearls attached to a bracelet and those two, beautiful eyes were starting shining; this had amazing, charming power. But the whole glory lay in the fact that this grace was revealed in absolutely natural details and not in firmly written scenarios, in familiar stories, often played out in front of little girls, like the scene of buying ice cream for the child. I never liked people who bought me ice cream because among the delicious eye-catching ones in the transparent glass refrigerator, they always chose the most expensive one. Among them, I loved vanilla ice cream, and I always equated chocolate with fakeness, and with people in general, because it is impossible to determine its exact taste; sometimes it is bitter, and sometimes it is the opposite. Here’s vanilla- it’s always the same, it’s irreplaceable, and it leaves the taste of summer syrup and winter snow on the tongue. At this time, I close my eyes and imagine myself unfurling the milky sails with both hands and looking at a flock of seagulls in the sky blue like an eternity.

They were buying me chocolate ice cream.

We both loved vanilla.

The most delicious were our desserts made together, which had been collected in a notebook with already unrolled pages full of recipes diligently collected a thousand years ago; and then, I was marvelling at the deliciousness that would come from bringing these drops of ink to life. At such times, we never regretted an accidentally broken egg and a disproportionate amount of sugar, because too much sweetness in life doesn’t hurt anything. And I liked my grandfather’s crescent moon smile towards me, which, I know for a fact, was brighter than any celestial body, even though I had never been to the moon before. Both of my grandparents are like the sun scattered in lemon-coloured fragments in my mind – they are simple, special and unique. They are like grass dew, in the morning, when you touch them with your feet, you feel an inimitable, mystical power, and it seems that just passing through them once is enough to live with this light for the rest of your life.

Grandma didn’t like memories. She lived in the present. She loved her beautiful past so much that she did not even try to recall them, she tried to revive them; and at this time, she looked like a pretty little girl, dressed in a sunlight dress that carelessly was chasing the butterflies scattered on the meadow.

I saw her youth. I fitted the equipment and together we dived into the wonderful vortex of wonder. Her life was like a firefly – it may be small, but inimitably brilliant. Besides, fireflies also shine at night.

Every morning with them was special and varied. No, we didn’t hike the mountains every day and spend the days in a pyramid-shaped tent, but we could sit comfortably in a time machine, and travel back and forth in time. All this was so wonderful that we could even ignore the ear-splitting hum of the engine. Yes, we were travelling to the future, and we were talking a lot about reality and inevitability, but I never imagined that in the glorious garden of life that little, sloppy child would be walking carelessly picking colourful, most unique flowers.

My fairy turned grey, rested quietly on the meadow green for eternity, and as the flattering wind faded, she scattered like a dandelion in the light-filled, rose-scented space.

I think of her often, and it always brings a smile to my lips. At this time I go to the garden – I water my poppies.

About The Author:

Mariam Bukia is a 15-year-old student from Georgia. She works as a general manager, project manager, PR manager, young teacher, head of personnel department, book club leader, speaker. She writes poems, stories, because in this way she feeds the garden of her thoughts and ideas with sunlight.