The Pages Bloom

❀2

As yellow light bursts into the room, I don't ask any more questions. I'm just glad to be feeling something other than misery for once.

But what is this?

My heart skips a beat as I examine the book closer, and I wonder if this could maybe, just maybe, be meant for me. A wave of emotions slam into my body at the thought of having something of my grandmother, the thought of not being alone even after her death.

Sweat gathers in my palms as I finally draw my hands forward, running my fingers over the strange cover. It's a sharp maroon in color, and in the center is some kind of symbol etched so deeply that it's almost engraved. It appears to be some kind of kanji but I can't decipher it, and a thorn of regret pricks through my skin.

She never got the chance to teach me Japanese.

But I find myself shaking my head—I can't spend every second dwelling—and instead pick up the book. It feels heavy in my hands despite being no bigger than any other book I have, but this isn't like any other book I have.

I prop it open, my eyes flying to every direction at once as I anticipate what I'll find. What she left for me. But disappointment hits me harder than anything else I've felt today as I flip through page after page of emptiness. Of nothing.

I rub my eyes, but the result is still the same. "I-it can't be empty!"

I sink into my chair, the book almost slipping from my grip. But I hold onto it.

Maybe...

I close my eyes, filling my lungs with oxygen before expelling the air through my nose. When I feel at least slightly more composed, I open my eyes and peer into the book once more.

I know it's empty, but what if it's supposed to be? I glance back over the blank, tan-colored pages, feeling the material between my fingers. In the corner of my peripheral vision, I spot one of my drawing pencils laying off to the side and realize that I haven't drawn all day.

Then, in a single moment, I picture my grandmother's spirit hovering over me, encouraging me to pick up the pencil and draw, just as she always had when she was alive.

I picture her standing beside me as we strolled through the park before standing underneath a flowering dogwood, her silver-gray hair pulled into a loose bun.

"Ah, they've bloomed again." A large grin creased her lips, growing almost big enough to erase the wrinkles denting her cheeks as she gazed up at the magnificent tree.

She held out her hands as snow-white petals fluttered down and graced the skin of her palms, the light, sweet-scented wind swaying the bright green sleeves of her kimono. She turned and glanced at me, her eyes twinkling the way they always did whenever she found a new muse.

"We should have brought our sketchbook, eh?"

"Yeah," I find myself saying in real time, the memory slowly crumbling away. I find myself back at my desk, the book still in front of me, but this time with the drawing pencil sitting on top of it.

I take it in my hand and focus on the first page, my hand gliding across it with ease. I channel all my feelings into this one drawing, the emotions surfacing onto the page as if they'd been poured straight out of my heart.

I nudge tiny gray dots onto the surface and begin connecting lines like constellations, sprawling them all across the small surface as if it's a tiny sky composed of endless tan.

My eyes glue themselves to the paper as I fervently map out her galaxy, because this is her world, her legacy. She takes the entire center of the page, a goddess in the disguise of a kind, wrinkled old woman whose smile was sweeter than any bowl of anmitsu, whose spirit was brighter than any star the night sky could even fathom.

When I'm done, I lift up the book, the bright light of my lamp bouncing off the cover as I gaze at my creation. There she gracefully sits, in the center of the page, her kimono dappled with the white flowers from that summer day. She wears a kind, humble smile, her eyes closed with an aura of gentle peace.

There she is.

Tears well in my eyes once more, blurring my vision as a wave of hot and cold floods my senses.

My obaachan.

Feeling weary and restless at the same time, I set the book down, my head settling right next to it. Before all this, I had never believed that someone could actually cry themselves to sleep, but that changes when you realize that sometimes crying is the only thing you can really do.