By Blaise Dupont, Year 12
It was a bright Spring day, the taste of strawberry shortcake flooded my mouth with flavour. Both the sour juice of the strawberries and the mushy, sweet texture of the cake danced their way down my throat, unified by a gentle cream zested with vanilla. I chewed gleefully, you giggled.
“Do you like it?” You asked. I nodded cheerfully. You always made the best pastries. I could never forget the way the textures embellished the flavours, and how the aroma of baked goods would pull me right out of bed in the morning. When I would look up to see your angelic features hovering over me, with a halo of sunshine glittering from behind. You would hold a plate of pastries baked with love for me to savour as breakfast in bed. You made my days before they even started. “Well, leave some for me!” You teased. I paused and stuffed my piece into your mouth, playfully. As you fell back onto the square-patterned cloth, laughing, I could not help but admire you, your beauty.
Laying on your mother’s old table cloth, surrounded by shimmering moss, blooming flowers and cherry blossoms that rained petals around us… it all felt like a dream. Maybe it was. You wiped the corners of your rose-tinted lips, then rested your head and stretched your arms to your sides, like an angel spreading its wings. Wearing your white sundress, nature appeared so dull in your presence, yet it ornamented your body so wonderfully. When the sun caressed your cheeks, it lightened the pigments of your skin. And when the wind tugged at your hair, it made luscious waves of your gingery curls. I was hypnotised by the sight of you, a true miracle of nature. A miracle assiduously sculpted by the gods themselves, and left to be fertilised by the lofty air and grown from the willows of mother nature’s affection. I sat as a bystander of your rise to the sky.
If only I could have pulled you down, back to your native lands and away from the clouds. If only I had the power to take back from the sky what it has stolen from this Earth. If only the gods had not demanded your return, sweet angel of Earth. The angel that woke me from my miserable slumber with sacchariferous baked delicacies that made my mouth water, and a patient smile. The angel whose face was soft like a petal. Your embrace was the greatest blessing that could have ever been gifted to me. You were an answered prayer, wanting, no, needing a divinity such as yourself to end my strenuous winter and begin a tender spring. The Earth was sprouting in colours because of your mere presence.
I blame myself for the astringent winters to come, as they may not end so shortly without you. The sun may never shine so bright. The flowers may lose their hue. The grass may lose its glint. All of nature may never emerge with enough passion and yearning without its beloved miracle. The hope that once diffused within the air may never live up to your standards.
I still recall the sound of the glass windshield shattering bare in front of our eyes as the car drove into a cherry blossom bark. You let out a scream of pure terror, before turning silent. A silence that oscillated across the Earth, and perked into the skies like a bitter reminder to the gods that left their gift deceased. A baker of sweet phyllos was left, neglectfully rotting beneath the ground in a sour carcass. I could never forgive them, nor myself. And in that daze, my lucidness caught up with me as your frail body began to distort. The mature cherry blossoms, the glittering moss, the blooming flowers and the delicate sunlight faded. My vision turned to a blur as your white, satin dress bled red in my memory.
It was true. I could not go back. No matter how many times I revisited our favourite garden, you could never reappear, waiting for me. I dread the outdoors at times for betraying you, but I know deep down, you would have wanted me to forgive, too. Sometimes, I look up to the sky and pray that you may be up there, looking down on me, like you said you would. I hope direly in my heart, that you forgive me for making a waste of such a graceful and elegant being. For not appreciating you for the wonders that you offered, or for the routine regimen of gifts that you donated to me so generously.
I thank you, my angel. For every spring that dawns, I think of you. I may never get enough of envisioning you at night, deep in my slumber. The Earth grieves with me, it too has grown cold since the glass jabbed your beating heart and silenced it for good. But as with time, it remains continuous. The seasons begin and end, such as life does. Its ephemerality is what gives life its value. It is a miracle to be treasured, just like you.
Yes, I thank you. For you have taught me the true essence of life, its worth and mine accordingly. Someday, nature may recover too, and spring will reclaim its youthful vitality. And when the sun rays tend to my skin, the florid aroma tickles my nose and the grass sweats glitter once more, I will know it was you. I will know that somewhere in the clouds, reaching the stars, you will be there, watching over me, my angel.
