Meraki

Where The Words Left Us

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I do not cry for your departure;

I do not think you were in pain,

Because at least you are at rest,

And your life was not in vain.

- We are gone, but did not die; @StineLise

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There was a coffee cup one the table between us. The hot steam rose through the air towards me, bringing with it the scent of the dark liquid. I wrinkled my nose. The cup was not mine. I didn't like coffee. I found the taste too bitter.

The cup belonged to the man sitting in front of me, at the opposite site of the small, wooden table. He had his hands folded underneath the dark boards, hidden in his lap. Probably so I wouldn't see them tremble. He didn't like to show weakness.

There was a newspaper in front of the man, opened at a random page. I do not think he was reading. His eyes were distant, unfocused, not taking in a word on that page. The paper was partly thorn, still wet from the rain.

I focused my gaze on my feet, under the table. They were bare, my toes touching the moist grass. The ground was cold and wet, as it often is after a storm. My feet felt small next to his, which were also bare, also chill in the not-quite-dry grass. But I do not think he cared. His feet were still, the reverse of mine. I was restless by nature. 

Tapping a beat with my toes, I closed my eyes. I started humming the melody to the song, matching the beat, slow and steady. It was a sailor's song, a song of ice and fire and distant cries of loved ones. 

Come hear my voice, my distant voice

As fires start to spread 

Come tell a tale, a song to wind

Before my eyes go dead

The melody was slow, sad, the tune longing. It told a story of a man, lost at sea, wishing for his lover to come and find him. The lyrics circled inside my head as I hummed it to myself.

The man at the other side of the table looked at me. His eyes, light blue in color, met mine, yet it did not feel as though he was there. He just watched me, as you watched the only moving thing you could see when you were not really looking - he watched me so he wouldn't watch his hands, and be reminded of why he hid them, folded in his lap, so they would not quiver.

I steadily met his gaze, trying not to look at the cuts on his chin. Instead, my eyes fell on the small patch of brown in his left iris. Unique.

And then I started singing. My voice was low at first, but rose in power as I gained trust in the man on the bench in front of me. The song was sad and slow, but not that long. The man listened. And for the first time, I thought I saw some sign of life mixed with the blue.

 

Come help me dear, come see me cry

And calm me with your speech

And I will rise so far, so high

That you won't see my reach

This time, when I looked away from the non-moving eyes of the man, a woman walked over. Her bare feet moved slowly towards my table, her hands folded in what looked like a prayer.

I stopped singing.

"Dear," she whispered while sitting down beside the man. She caught my hand, lying flat against the damp wood. Her fingers were cold, and she held my hand between both of hers, hard, as though letting go would break me somehow. Her eyes never left my face. I guess she was searching for some of the sadness she had heard in my voice.

And somehow, I found it comforting. As though her grip on me was the only thing grounding me, and without it, I would shatter. 

Around me, sitting on the moist ground or on wet and cold stones, people were watching me in silence. I must have sung a bit louder than I thought. Maybe they wanted me to shut up. After all, many people had lost loved ones today.

The storm had been a brutal one.

The woman holding my hand smiled at me. It wasn't a happy smile, not one filled with humor or grace. It was a sad smile, a smile of comfort, a smile because she believed I needed one. And maybe I did. And maybe she knew.

The smile was one filled with bitter thoughts, not directed at me, but at the world in general. The smile was like the cup of coffee at the table between us. Suddenly, that dark liquid didn't feel as bad. Maybe the cup was mine after all, and maybe I would feel better after drinking it. Though it still smelled as bad as before.

"Sweetheart."

The woman patted the back of my hand to gain my attention. I realized my eyes had slipped to the mug with the steam, and I slowly looked at her again. The smile was gone, though still haunting her eyes, and she opened her small mouth to speak.

"I am sorry to hear of your loss," she said.

"I don't know what you mean."

She looked at me and then at the man beside her, he also watching her with little life and little hope and no idea what she was talking about. Like me.

"That song. And the wave. I truly am sorry." She smiled that tired, longing smile. "My husband told me your name. Marina, isn't it?"

I nodded.

She smiled again.

"Would you sing for us, Marina?" She gestured to the people behind her.

I nodded.

And stood on the bench, turning to face all the people around me. They were just as lost as I was, it seemed, with blank expressions and tears frozen on their cheeks. Many had coffee cups in front of them, some empty, some full, but mostly somewhere in between. Half empty. Half full.

"Come hear my voice, my distant voice

As fires start to spread

Come tell a tale, a song to wind

Before my eyes go dead

Come taste my tears, my salt on cheeks

While tides come rising in

Come steal a kiss, a heart, a soul

Before cold seas can win

Come help me dear, come see me cry

And calm me with your speech

And I will rise so far, so high

That you won't see my reach

Come see me dance, my feet on ground

When waters turn to seas

Come make a wish, a hopeless wish

As my voice returns to breeze"

And that was it. I broke down in tears and did not stop to breathe for days.