St. Robert’s very own Creative Writing Club recently hosted a contest. Here’s the first place winner, Nina Zhang’s entry!
It was a world that had been washed of colour.
A tired neighbourhood.
A blank canvas.
Someone had tried to bring life to it. It was evident in the dead shrubs and the peeling
paint that once bolstered bold murals. The only living plant seemed to be an unassuming tree planted in the middle of the neighbourhood, the same yellowed green as the grass. Until it began to bloom.
A mother froze in the middle of her step, a child’s hand laced with hers. The two stood,
hand in hand, in front of a newly awakened wisteria tree.
In the whisk of wind stirred up by the bleak weather, fuchsia petals danced against a
colourless sky. Its green leaves had bled into pink blossoms, like wet paint that had been splashed against an upright stand. It had pulled all the sentiment it could find in that little town, until years of little moments and colours had collected itself into full piece.
And while the mother had hurried home after the initial shock, presumably to tell the
good news, the boy was fixated to the spot. He was afraid to touch the petals, fearing they
would disappear like wisps of clouds to the touch.
When he finally approached, he realised he was not alone. Sitting underneath the tree,
an elderly lady slept. An askew petal had landed against her cheek, youthful velvet against her wrinkled skin.
She woke immediately as he approached, his fingers just barely about to brush the
fallen petal away. Embarrassed, he withdrew his hand.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Her voice held a similar creak as a hollowed tree, fi ghting against
the brazen wind. A smile lit her face as she regarded him. Her eyes were clouded with age, coils of fog paling what eyes that once held colour.
“Y-yes?” he stammered, but the old lady didn’t seem to notice. Her face remained
unrecognisable, despite their small neighbourhood. Yet the boy would forever remember
her sitting underneath the tree, the flair of a petal against her discoloured skin.
“Perhaps we have finally been blessed,” she had said, an echo of fuschia flowers reflected in her misted eyes. “Our neighbourhood will be colourful. Yet, I might remain colourless.”
The old woman laughed at that, but he pondered it for a moment.
“But it is just a tree. Like a single stroke on a canvas. Sure, it will be beautiful, but
everything will remain the same.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because we are liquid. Everchanging, never conforming to shape. You cannot compare
yourself to a canvas.”
He did not understand. And as she continued to teach in riddles and rhymes, he found
himself drifting off. Still, he liked sitting with her, so he was disappointed when she began to rise from her bench after a while.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I do not know,” she responded without looking back.
“When will I see you again?”
Finally she stopped, turning for a brief moment to smile at him.
“Perhaps when the tree changes,” she said. “We have met in the youth of pink and we
shall meet again in the dying orange.”
The tree had indeed brought about much excitement and visitation from the neighbourhood.
Once, the sunset was the only thing that painted the world orange. But now, with a gentle flick of Autumn’s wrist, the leaves were recoloured with brilliant new shades.
The little boy, who had grown within his months, stood waiting underneath the wisteria
tree. And although he had matured, he was still distraught with youthful impatience. Just as the breeze dipped into an icy wind and the boy began to rise, an elderly woman could be seen hobbling through the streets in approach. She smiled and waved upon spotting him.
His heart sang with joy upon seeing his long-awaited friend.
“You came!”
“Of course I would dearie.”
“You could’ve taught me many things if you had only come sooner,” he immediately complained as soon as she had settled. “I have waited every day. ”
The old lady looked away from him, distracted by the flutter of decaying leaves.
“Some lessons are better taught with time.”
“Yet I have learned nothing.”
She smiled at that. “It seems you have learned an attitude.”
And although he had been a bit angry at first, it had faded immediately as they
talked. She met him every day of that autumn with bits of wisdom each time. They stayed
under the wisteria tree until dark, his mother’s worried cries beckoning him back home.
“I will not leave yet,” she had promised. “But when I do, I will meet you under the fresh
flowers.”
Day after day, the leaves were stripped from the wisteria tree, until it had become nothing
more than a husk. When the boy arrived one day, he found the tree adorned with a new colour.
White.
And an empty bench, decorated with fresh snow.
“Wear your coat, it’s still cold!” his mother hollered after him, but there was no stopping
the young boy. He dashed out of the house, racing through the streets. The village was bound to look quite different this spring. New plants had bloomed everywhere, sprouts peeking out of melting snow piles.
Because we are liquid. Everchanging, never conforming to shape.
He had reflected on his old friend’s sayings upon their first meeting. The old lady
recommended painting to him and he learned nothing at first. It wasn’t until he had turned
to clean his brush in the water, when it dawned on him.
A drop of ink in water changes everything.
Finally, he reached the tree, the same brilliant fuschia he remembered it to be. He took a
seat underneath, eagerly awaiting the arrival of his old friend again.
Just as the child remembered, the elderly woman never broke a promise. Indeed, he would come to find her under fresh flowers.
But that day, she never really did show up under the wisteria tree.