Tulips

Haru Kiyono exists, but does not live. When she walks, her footsteps are like the falling feathers of a Tancho bird as it silently scurries away. Quite often, one would question whether or not she is breathing. Her presence is neither tense nor relaxed; it simply is.

She used to be a vivacious girl. Because she was known for her artistic talents, the children at her school followed her around, asking her to paint their favorite toys, flowers, or self-portraits. Her then still childish, plump hands awkwardly grasped onto the splintered paintbrush that became a part of her flesh, and dipped the bristles into swirls of cheap, lumpy paint. Any opportunity to paint was an invitation of freedom, her pupils dilating in absent minded creativity. No one knew what exactly went on in her mind except through the vivid colors she carefully lathered onto the canvas. When the children were seated after lunch recess, Haru was always the last one to come back in.

“Where is Haru?” the exasperated teacher would ask as her tired eyes raced around the classroom. Peeping her head out the window, she would see Haru crouched down next to the tulip garden, sketch-book in hand, whispering her secrets to the tulips.

But now, those secrets are locked up inside of her, put away along with the enjoyment of life she once had. Now, Haru Kiyono lives as the last centimeter of an eraser, or the end of a loaf of bread; she is what could make the difference but is thrown away, only to be, perhaps, a regretful afterthought.

32 years have passed, and she still hasn’t picked up a paintbrush. Haru’s child is as suppressed in expressiveness as her, and her husband is as controlling as her father used to be.

“Okaasan! Can I go play outside? Please mother, I’m done with all my homework.”

Haru was on her hands and knees in the wooden floored hallway that led to the genkan filled with black shiny business shoes, small sneakers, and a pair of beat up sandals. She raised her head and proceeded to sit in a seiza position, thin shins tucked underneath her hamstrings. Her eyes were fixated on empty space, and there was a wet rag in her hand.

“No, Katsuo. Go to your room and study right now,” Mr. Shimizu’s voice bellowed from the other room.

“But father…”

“I said no.”

As Katsuo dragged his 8-year-old feet across the wooden bamboo tatami mat of the small living room, Haru’s eyes trailed behind. Katsuo had just been released from his 5-day room arrest by Mr. Shimizu, rewarded only with a single pat on the head and a walk around the neighborhood.

Haru often had flashbacks. She could feel the ghostly grip of her father’s deteriorating hands onto her slender own, like a man desperately begging to have his life spared.

“Haru,” his raspy voice shook, “I’m not going to live on this earth for very much longer.” Haru could not make eye contact with him. He continued, “You haven’t been a very obedient girl growing up, you know that? I have been embarrassed by you so.”

She nodded her head in an automated response.

“You took up painting when I gave you a brain to study, and now it’s too late to pursue anything else. My father and mother were both very successful, and all you can do is useless catharsis in color.”

Her quivering lips parted slightly in protest, but she knew her inputs would be useless.

“So, Haru, you must promise me three things. This is my final wish upon my deathbed.” His grasp tightened and his fading pupils solidified into two black marbles. “First, you must marry into a family with a good name. It is important that our family lives on in a successful bloodline. Secondly, I want you to take care of my grave every day, watering it and tending it with flowers. I am not going to make your brother do that, and your mother will be much too distressed after I die, but it is imperative I am comfortable in my death. And thirdly, Haru, do not leave a trace on the earth, not a single drop of paint, not even an idea of one, because you are going to leave it someday soon. It’s embarrassing enough that you already have so many paintings. You understand?”

Black, white, and gray. Her heart hurt. No, it didn’t just hurt, it tightened up into a small knotted ball and wrung out the very soul that she thought she once had. But she knew that she had to keep her father’s orders. She would not leave her mark on this earth.

After a moment’s breath, Haru got back on her hands and knees and continued to wipe the floor. Wipe, drench, wring. Then wipe again, until the farthest point of the hallway was reached.

“Haru,” Mr. Shimizu said. Haru nodded. “Haru did you hear me?” Mr. Shimizu finally slid open his door and peeped his head out, glasses shifting slightly on his rigid, square face. Haru nodded once more, concentrating on the plank of wood ahead of her that was slightly discolored from the rest. She knew this was the way he saw his father treat his mother. “Why are you always so silent… to think that I married you. You got lucky to have a man like me, you know that?” Scoffing, the large boulder disappeared again behind the door.

She slowly stood up, like a ghost rising from its grave, and drifted into her room, located closest to the kitchen. She slid open her wooden door, revealing another tatami room that had no hints of a live occupant. There was simply a wooden table with a candle, and a pull out drawer for Mr. Shimizu’s extra clothing.

Mr. Shimizu had managed to get the only antique, one story wooden house in the neighborhood of Mitaka-shi, Tokyo. Modernization had taken over this district, and all the other houses had been crushed, with cramped, concrete apartments taking their place. Wires increasingly crowded the blue sky like electronic waves on the static display of a dysfunctional television screen. The streets were newly paved, yellow and white solid lines attempting to divide the narrow roads that only fit one car at a time. The Shimizus had bought the house before these renovations, and fought against legal authorities to keep the design as it was. They did not want to fall into modernization; they believed in honoring their ancestors. In the end, they were granted their request, as long as the traditional backyard was cut to half its size in order to fit in other condominiums. Ever since then, the house had become the Shimizu’s pride and joy, known throughout the neighborhood as the house that is still standing. And now as Haru slipped on her dilapidated footwear and pushed against the heavy wooden door out onto the stone steps, she could hear the whispers of the people passing by who longingly looked at the house, as if it ran on its own time, separated from the circumstances of the rest of the world.

Closing the rusting metal gate behind her, she shifted the shopping bag strap on her angular shoulder and turned to the left towards the small market at the end of the street. It was an overcast day; winter was coming. The air was quiet and small, but bustling with the busy thoughts of the people; humility and prideful autonomy fought each other here. A stray cat cried near the trash bags, which were all set outside under nets, neatly separated into recyclables and non-recyclables. Two black crows were picking at another one of the bags, spilling banana peels and fish bones out onto the pavement.

Haru walked on the side of the road, even though she knew that no cars would pass by. None ever did on Saturdays anyway, when everyone took the train downtown where there was more life. When she got to the market, she saw that there was no salmon; there was only white fish. It would have to suffice. She could grill it the same with salt, lemon, and soy sauce, and hopefully Mr. Shimizu would still be satisfied. Since she knew that they still had left over dry rice grains back at the house, she pointed at the fish, bought three, then walked back. The gate squeaked as she pushed through it, and her sandals shuffled the sand bordered stone walkway. A thorn tugged at the flesh of her cheek as she reached the genkan, a thin, dark red line stretched across her skin. The plants at the entrance were going to need trimming. She would get to that later.

Soon, the fluffy rice was steaming in the stone pot, and grilled fish were each laid out on top of three kin-fired clay plates. Each one had a little pile of grated radish, with finely sliced green onion and an eigth of a lemon on the side. Haru created a perfect presentation for dinner, and she had made this without a single thought in her head.

At exactly 6:30 PM, Mr. Shimizu emerged out of his room and strode down the hall, impatiently sliding open kitchen door. The knee-high, roughly cut wooden table was set up with the freshly made rice in white bowls, three sitting mats surrounding the table, and Haru, who was sitting down in seiza, staring ahead.

“Haru.” She slowly and silently turned her body towards him, still in seiza, then set her palms on the tatami in a pyramid shape. Her forehead touched the back of her hands, resting there for a solid second, and then came back up. Mr. Shimizu nodded slightly in acknowledgement, sitting cross-legged on the mat, then called for Katsuo to come out. The 8 year old, who had been absentmindedly playing with his stationaries inside his room, somberly walked out of his room and into the kitchen, plopping himself onto the sitting mat.

A moment after Katsuo sat down, Haru got up and brought out the fish; first for Mr. Shimizu, then for Katsuo, and then for herself. There was a split second of silence.

“What the hell is this?”

Her finger twitched.

“Does this look like salmon to you?” Her eyes closed as Mr. Shimizu’s spit rained down onto her face and onto her battered clothes. She bit her lip in attempt to stop herself from wiping it off. “You are good for nothing! Do you have any idea what kind of sacrifices I made for you? I could have had that pretty whore down the street as my wife, I could have a couple of them actually, but I only chose you for your promise to sell your service to me. I gave you a family, I gave you a house, I gave you a name. As useless as a pile of ashes, that’s what you are!” He furiously shook his head, slamming his hand down onto the table. Katsuo’s rice bowl fell onto the floor, and he quickly picked up the grains into his hands and rushed back to his room. “I refuse to eat. Clean up,” he fumed, and then slammed the door shut.

Haru did not shed a tear. But her bony hands were balled up into tight fists, and her lip was bleeding consistently now, a meaty chunk imprinted by the marks of her front teeth.

Slowly, she threw away the contents from the table into a large garbage bag. She did not separate the recyclables from the non-recyclables, nor did she preserve the untouched food as she usually did. When she took the large garbage bag out to the front of the gate, she did not even cover the bag with a net. Then, something caught her eye.

It was not usual for Haru Kiyono to follow her curiosity. In fact, it had been a while since anything triggered emotion in her at all. But the familiar tube-like shape that peeked out of the garbage net from the apartment across from the house was enough to make her pause. She shuffled quickly across the road, where she picked up the object and rushed back into the safety of her room.

She waited till the evening, and then lit a candle by her bedside for some light. It had been a while since she painted. When she was younger, Haru had been considered a genius in painting; the way she blended hues and shades were the only means for her limitless mind to find a way into the tangible. Everyone but her father had praised her for her talent; this was until her father’s death, of course. He was jealous of her talent in art that he did not have, him having to work hard for the attention of even his older siblings. This had led him to his death wish.

And finally, the artist inside of her was suddenly awakened once more by the touch of the wooden body of the paintbrush against her fingertips as she picked it up. Trembling, she squeezed red and orange paint out of from the dirty tubes onto the tatami. The tip of the paintbrush was dipped into the colors like toes testing for dangerous waters. This is going too far, Haru knew this. This is going against her father, her ancestors, and her last few decades of her existence. But she felt it; she felt her soul scratch against the very door of her conscience. She unquestionably had to escape.

Slowly, she let her brush glide across the walls of her room. An unfamiliar expression played across her face –perhaps a smile—as the lines got thicker and bolder, definite and purposeful. Red and orange streaks of paint became more and more consistent on the surface of the wall. Her soul was erupting, much like how a star explodes before in its death, but she had never felt more alive. The small candlelight grew until it was bursting into a full-fledged fire, flames enclosing upon the furniture of the room. She slashed more red and orange on her walls, a laugh bubbling up inside of her, escaping her cracking lips. Finally. Finally she was enveloped in her own self, the prisoner breaking free and destroying the remnants of her past. She took a step back as the flames licked her calves, eating through her apron. She closed her eyes, smoke grasping her throat and crawling into her lungs. “You were right,” she whispered. “I really am here for a fleeting moment. Who will remember me, come many generations?” She held up the paintbrush up against the fire. Its shadow connected to that of her own, as if part of her limbs. “I am becoming ashes once more, just like you,” she whispered, “But I created my own fire. I am my own ashes. And I have secrets that only the tulips will ever know.