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Lanterns
our community. This was the only time my grandfather talked about
the war, reliving the past, calling on forbidden memories that he had
shoved to the back of his mind. Shutting the hurt and pain away, his
eyes pierced ours with a sense of grief and strife, a constant reminder
of the past that traumatised and disturbed him. Yet he was at ease
within the country; stories of his friends from the army with whom
he had lost contact were set free from his mind. The crippling pain
of his leg – easily forgotten. I never knew what had happened to his
leg, but I always walked behind him, it was second nature, cautiously
and anxiously waiting to catch him if his leg were to give way. At the
conclusion of his stories, he would say,
Young son, be thankful to our
ancestors above that you do not have to see what I saw, hear what I heard and live
the way I had to live
. I always wanted him to tell me more, I wanted to
know more about the war but being a respectful grandson, I did not
question further.
Reaching the cliff top I fall to the ground, my hands raking
through the soft grass, tiny drops delicately sitting on the fine slivers
of the luscious lawn. Leaning against the old Kabushi magnolia tree,
I see its delicate pink and white blossoms cascade from the branches
which gently sway with the wind. The fragrant twist of floral scent
lingers against my nose, tickling and teasing its way through my
nostrils. The large glowing sphere of the sun rises slowly into the
dull morning sky, casting radiant beams that illuminate our small
town below. It is the first thing to pierce the darkness, casting an
orange haze across the horizon, painting the sky with glimmers of
delicate red, yellow and pink hues. The strength of the wind suddenly
picks up as it wails between distorted trunks. Above the mountain
cliff my eyes focus on my community; the first signs of life emerge
from the huts into the vast abundance of rice fields that provides us
with our sole source of income.
Like the cluster of lanterns that bob in time with the currents of
the river, a group of yellow shapes assemble within the rice fields. It
takes me a moment to recognise our traditional straw hat, the kasa,
which protects the faces of workers from another daunting day’s
work. Beyond, the sun glimpses over the mountain ridges, with
greetings of great reminders of the rice paddies that require tending.
Bodies hunker down in the fields; women, men, neighbours, elders,
aunts and uncles. The kasa is in its rightful place, protecting their
precious faces from the darkening heat of the day. Dainty hands
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