Mendacious

I remember.

I remember the crooked steps of the dilapidated cabin I would run toward as pale fuchsias and mauves streaked the sky, twinkling stars fading into sight, making room for themselves in the vast night.

I remember rusty tin buckets placed on damp, rotted floorboards that overflowed after collecting the little drip-drops that fell from the ceiling for days on end. I would have to jump over at least ten to get to the front door. A jungle-gym in my own home. I had so much fun, grinning, giggling innocently as I accidentally knocked a bucket over and the sunlight hit the water, a panorama of colors appearing all so bright they could have outshone the sun.

I remember whimpering into the arms of my mother as she patched up the seams of scarlet that lined my elbows and knees and shins. Her ribcage was bony under the steadfast grip of my twig-like arms, clinging onto her tight, tight, tight, hoping that I would never have to let go. Her sari, a distastefully faded shade of green, had only a couple of gems left on the fraying hem, each of them hanging for dear life by a thread. And her hair, once a smooth, full curtain of black that draped around the plump figure of her face, was pulled back into an ever-tightening bun, harshly streaked with a white that comes from something other than age.

I remember the flakes of dough, just that right shade of gingerbread, falling on my lap after I tried a gulab jamun for the first time, the sugar coating my taste buds, licking my lips, trying to make the treacly flavor last.

I remember the lingering aroma of basmati rice in the living room, the spices of chutneys and curries alike, the soothing feel of cold rice pudding infused with rose as I licked the bowl clean.

I remember climbing up the aged oak tree in the backyard, falling off it and being rushed to the hospital, it was so white and so clean, no dirt and no leaks, I hadn’t seen anything like it. The nurse with vines and tulips on her uniform put staples in my head and asked me not to cry and I said yes, I wouldn’t cry, I was brave, I was brave, I was strong.

I remember the tears that rolled down my mother’s hollow cheeks as she pawned off her gold bracelet with so many emeralds embedded, her only memory of her grandmother, to pay for my school supplies. She wiped them away when she thought I wasn’t watching, but I was. She never cried again.

I remember sketching a sailor’s ship with the used colored pencils I got for my fifth birthday. I wanted to be there, listening to the crash of the waves against the hull, feeling the frigid wind biting my cheeks and ripping through my clothing, the rocking of the ship lulling me to sleep.

I remember this, all of it. This was home. It wasn’t much, but it was my home, my home forever and ever and ever. It would welcome me with a warm embrace when I had nowhere else to go, when no one else would take me.

I remember skipping onto the porch, sliding my worn-down satchel off my arm and letting it hit the dirt with a thud as I felt my pockets for a key, tearing one of the stitchings as I extracted it. I slid the key into its slot, turning it, a satisfying click. And that’s when I heard it.

One sound.

One very loud sound.

They were not firecrackers, no, they were not.

A gunshot, condemning and final, echoed, the air quivering as the sound resounded, bouncing off weathered roofs and windows.

I stumbled inside, and I saw her lying on the floor, deep red seeping through cloth and into the creaky wood beneath. I held her, asking her to wake up, did she want water? She was motionless and I did not understand. Then a man in a blue uniform with a sparkly gold badge carried me outside with one hand under my knees and one cradling my neck and very gently requested I get into the back of his car. There were some gummy bears and a grape juice box if I wanted them. I had never tried gummy bears or grape juice, so I went. Something felt wrong, but I did not know why. The nice man then closed the door and began to ask me all sorts of questions, but I could not hear him. Only a deafening silence as I was carted away, the place I had once called home suddenly seeming foreign, not so much a home. I never saw it again.