Omoide--Jordyn

Electricity crackled through the air as she stared out the window, watching what used to be her front yard blow away. 

Not literally, of course, for where else can dirt fall except the ground? The dust picked up in whirlwinds, rising and landing with the gusts of wind. The grass that used to grow at its best in the spring was dry, brittle, and settled into the cracks in the floor. The floorboards, once a shining pine, were worn flat. The house itself, old. Gusty, brittle, and worn. She wasn’t sure if it would survive the storm that raged outside the creaky blinds, the squeaky door, the rattling slats of wood, and leaky ceiling.

She backed away from the window pane and sat cross-legged on the carpet. Her finger trailed across the thready pattern of red, green, and blue, just as she had done a million times before. This rug was first crossed by her parents, fresh home from a honeymoon in a far off country with a hard to pronounce name. They laid the hand braided rug down as a wedding gift from her Sobo and set a hand-carved table from Sofu on top. This table is where her Mama would lay her sewing out, where Ofukuro would prop her feet after a long day. The rug had a new set of feet to protect from the wooden floor the day she came home, an excited toddler with a curiosity that only children have, exploring every inch of the house in her reach. She had watched as the colors dulled with the years, finally leaving it as this: a threadbare carpet run ragged. 

Her back began to ache by sitting against the old foot table, so she stretched out across the carpet. Her hair fanned out around her head, creating a halo of gray and brown. Blowing a strand out of her eyes, she stared at the ceiling. The red spot directly above her stomach was a result of a piece of toast spread with strawberry jam and a very intense competition about who can throw harder and faster between her and Ofukuro . Neither had won once Mama found out and sent them sulking away. 

Ofukuro was not always her name. When she was very little, Offie suited her small mind perfectly. Until her Sobo sat down and explained that her Offie had called her Ofukuro when she was small, and she had even called her mother that. It is tradition, y atsu . You must carry it on. With pride, she began to learn her Ofukuro’s mother tongue, determined to please her. Every word she learned was celebrated, every sentence spoken a victory in the eyes of her proud

parents. By ten years old, she was fluent, having secrets and conversations that her Mama couldn’t understand by watched with shining eyes. 

Mama never really picked up on what they were talking about, but sometimes after Ofukuro w ould leave the room, the small child would run and tell her Mama everything she now knew. A mile had five thousand two hundred and eighty feet. The perfect amount of peanut butter and jelly a sandwich should have. How to tie a knot that’ll never break. Mama would throw her head back laughing, her head of rippling brown hair flowing back. The hair was her treasure- something she brushed everyday, for ten minutes straight. For years upon years she would sit and watch her Mama count the strokes in the living room mirror, entranced by how beautiful it was. Stubbornly, she would pull on her own locks, praying for the days that she would have hair ‘long enough to sit on.’ Patience, my sweet one, Mama would whisper as she floated away to complete her next task, leaving her to stare at her plain reflection. 

This is where she sat now, legs stretched out in front and eyes focused on the dusty pane of one way glass propped against the wall. Her image was still plain, if not a bit older now. Mousy brown hair cropped short at her chin, a jutting neck, and a soft smile. The smile that she flashed everyday from birth until today, the one the neighbors could count on, that teachers saw walk through the door everyday, the one looking back at her now. Tucking a lock of hair behind her ears and tugging on it out of habit, she stood up and walked toward the bedroom at the end of the hall. The door opened with a push and the room greeted her with familiar sights. Two nightstands framing a wooden bed with a quilt of violets. Brown carpet that tickled her toes. A dresser with the name Winnie carved into the left side. 

She huddled on the bed, covering herself with the comforter. The wind was loud now, louder than her thoughts, fighting to break its way into the house. She closed the blanket over head, trapped in a world of semi-darkness, where the wind wasn’t allowed inside. Her breathing overpowered the wind, so she took careful breaths, exhaling to match the storm outside. Her glasses fogged with steam. She gave herself a small hole to look through, watching the window above her. 

The house was breathing. Inhale, exhale, she matched it’s breath. The walls swayed with a pulse. It took gulps of air, almost as if to remind her that she was still there. With all the life they had poured into the house, the house now gave back. She wasn't alone. She didn’t have to do this by herself, she had her years of living, her Mama’s hairbrush, her Ofukuro’s jacket. Her Sobo’s words and Sofu’s memory. Her house’s comfort. The wind blew strong and she could swear the walls leaned in closer to retell her the stories she had forgotten. 

She was found in her Mama’s hand sewn quilt, the one with the pretty violets.