AN ODE TO YOUR DREAMS

( 二 ) drowning hyacinth

drowning hyacinth.

LOOK AT ALL OF THE HEALTHY, GROWING FLOWERS. Its stems are strong amidst the flowing wind, swaying but never faltering or crumbling down in a place where it is properly taken care of. Everyone knows that it is essential to be aware of the basic necessities that come along with tending these living things. Things such as sunlight, water, and its soil play a huge factor towards the significant process of a plant's growth, and more specifically, its production of sugars and oxygen.

The whole process itself is a cycle wherein the plant takes what it needs and then in turn provides the world what it can and so much more if it is healthy. It's a give and take relationship with mutual benefit.

But what happens if an overflow of water falls onto it, seeping into its roots and taking over each nook and cranny within its system? What happens if it is exposed underneath the glaring heat of the Sun's light? What comes of it if it is buried underneath ashy soil from the roots to its tips?

It drowns. So much so that it withers before it could even reach for the pinnacle of its short lifeline. It falls beneath the water's waves that takes over its system and leaves no space for oxygen to come through. It burns underneath the Sun's heated rays, left to turn rough and dry before it eventually dies. Its roots do not reach past its limits when left to be hugged tightly by soil, becoming stuck.

You would know. Because you are a flower, yourself. A hyacinth, to be exact—a flower that had a shorter lifespan compared to the rest.

"I'm home." You mumble as you place your shoes in the black metal shoe rack stationed right beside the entrance of your home. Almost immediately, your mother comes barreling towards your direction; an apple-patterned apron tied around her hips with a ladle in hand, her hair frazzled despite being tied up with a scrunchie.

"(First Name), w-welcome home." She breathes out, her smile wobbling slightly. Her hands grasp for the coat around your figure to help you out of it.

"It's fine, Mom. I can do it."

"No, no. Don't be ridiculous." She waves her hand dismissively. "I'll put this in the wash. You go ahead and clean up then come down to have dinner once you're done."

She doesn't even give you enough time to respond before she's shooing you away with a wave of her free hand and turning around to head back to the kitchen.

You sigh, watching her back slowly disappear behind the walls before walking to your room to bathe.

"EAT, EAT. I made your favorite tonight: curry and chicken cutlet." She shakily reaches for the ladle across the table to place a generous amount on your plate, lathering it all over the chicken cutlet—just like she knew how you preferred it. You simply watched the curry dripping on your plate.

"There. Eat lot's, okay?" She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

You find yourself looking at your mother a lot. As each day passes, you tend to notice a bit more about her features, such as the growing lines on her forehead becoming prominent than the month before. Her hands have gone clammy, not completely due to the curse of time but also the worry that clearly plagues her mind. Each movement she makes around you seems so overthought.

"Thank you for the food." You say quietly before digging in. As usual, the food is delicious. The curry is flavorful and it spreads all over your tongue along with the perfectly crispy chicken cutlet. Despite this, you can't find it within yourself to enjoy anything. You have been eating this same meal for the past few days. You don't know if your mother has forgotten about the number of times she's made curry and chicken cutlet from the days before because it seems that she was too focused on making it taste better each present day that comes.

The curry was even more flavorful than the previous day and the chicken cutlet was crispier and more tender than the last time you ate it. It seems that as the days go by, the days wherein you both eat the same meal has become more frequent.

"Are we going to eat this again tomorrow, Mom?"

She smiles, lips trembling slightly. "Yes, if you want. We'll even eat it everyday if you want to."

You shake your head. "No, it's okay. You can choose tomorrow."

Her smile falls. "Well... I'm happy with anything you want, (First Name)."

You look at her unsurely. She's fidgeting with her fingers again, tugging each one with a thumb and index finger before cracking them. You look down at her wrist.

82

She sees the way you glance at her wrist and she immediately hides it under the table.

"How about shogayaki?" She speaks suddenly, pulling her lips upwards and snapping her fingers. "You like that one too, right?"

You send her a slow nod, swallowing a spoonful of rice.

"We'll eat that for tomorrow, then!" She claps. "And how about your lunch for school tomorrow? I'll make that carbonara you used to tell me about. It's a European food, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'll make that, then."

"Okay. Thanks."

You don't have the energy to contradict her. Whenever she sets her mind to something, it's difficult to pull her away from it. Despite how frail she appears, she's as stubborn as a mule. But sometimes, you wonder what it would be like if she set you aside for once and be selfish just for the sake of her own self.

She looks at you once more, eyes wider and lips pressed with her cheeks bunching up enthusiastically.

"So, tell me, how's school?"

appendix.
i. shogayaki ( 生姜焼き ) — japanese dish. thinly-sliced porkloin with sweet ginger sauce.

ii. carbonara — roman dish. pasta with white, creamy sauce from eggs, with guanciale, cheese, and pepper.