Marigold
Damon hunches over his messy desk, his desk-light reveals swarming sheets of paper, pens, a half-full glass of water and an empty jug. He raises the glass to his lips, gulping it down with a satisfactory sigh.
A feeble knock comes on the door.
“Mmm.” Damon mumbles, unshifting from his position. The door’s hinges creak as it opens and a golden streak of light from his living room infiltrates his room.
Ahma enters, she stretches over Damon’s desk. He shifts slightly in his seat as her hand retreats with an empty jug trembling in her hands.
Damon returns to his tranced focus on the paper in front of him. He picks up his pen and leans forward, resting his arms on the desk as he squints at his essay paper.
Another knock and Ahma returns with a filled jug. Her shaky arms stretch again like a crane over his desk.
“Ah…” His grandma stammers, the jug nudges the empty cup and it tips off the desk. Damon instinctively raises his legs. The glass shatters onto the floor.
Damon tuts aggressively, his eyebrows furrowing.
“Get out.”
Ahma timidly escapes from the room.
Damon carefully maneuvers his legs over the glistering shards of glass, propping himself up as he goes to his kitchen to find a broom and dustpan. Ahma is nowhere to be seen. He returns back and sweeps the fragments into the dustpan, pouring them into the dustbin in the kitchen.
He grabs another glass and retreats back into his room. He slams the door with a forceful swing, locking the door moments after, relishing with a grunt.
He looks at his essay paper again. He slumps into the chair, letting out a disgruntled groan. He picks up the jug and pours another water for himself, sulking.
-
Damon walks down the corridor outside his flat, still in his school uniform. He cups a pot of marigold close to his chest. The sunset paints the walls in a gleaming amber. He unlocks the front door and pushes it open, stepping into his home.
His mom is sitting alone in the kitchen, illumination from the kitchen light casts a worrying shadow on her face. A cold whisper escapes her mouth.
“Ahma was hospitalized. She had a stroke. Dad’s staying with her in the hospital.”
His face depicts a somber grimace as he stares idly at his mom, Damon nods silently, running from the fleeting moments of daylight. He halts between the frames of the door as the light reveals his room.
Everything in his room looks too perfect. His worksheets are neatly arranged, the jug is filled to the brim. His eyes wander to the rest of his room; the made bed, folded blankets stacked on top of his wooly bolster and flower-patterned pillow. He places the pot on his desk, slings his bag onto the floor and collapses onto the chair, exhaling a heavy sigh that lingers a little too long in the room.
-
The same pot of marigold stands next to the pane of a hospital window; its droopy petals slugging on the browning, brittle stem.
Damon sits on a chair at the corner of the sterile hospital room, staring at Ahma’s skinnier and wrinkly face, her mouth hanging slightly apart and eyes blinking unevenly. A small bandage tinted pink wraps around her foot.
Damon turns away to observe the outside world from high above, the sunset peeks into the room with a mellow afterglow.
Incoherent gibberish from Ahma prompts Damon to look at her. She raises her hand feebly, pointing at the pot. Damon’s gaze follows the invisible line, returning to face her with a puzzled look. She points to a water jug next to her bed, Damon nods and gets up, shuffling next to her bed, grabbing the jug and a white cup before pouring water into it.
Damon turns to Ahma, bringing the water closer to her mouth.
“I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Ahma doesn’t respond. Her frail body moves unnaturally, wobbling her head left and right. Her lucid eyes wander around the room, she starts to groan, her arms flailing at the side.
Damon takes a step back as Ahma raises her arm again, pointing beyond him. He turns around, tracing her arm to the silhouette of the pot of marigold.
“Oh.” Damon strides to the windowsill, tossing the straw onto the table and pouring a generous amount of water in the pot. He turns back, putting the cup down as he looks at his grandmother. Her face unstiffening as her body loosens. Her croaking stops, resting her gazeon Damon, staring past him.
Damon’s face trembles, his eyes start to pool.
“I’m so sorry.”
His face crumbles as tears stream down, he kneels next to Ahma’s bed, lifting up her limp hand. Only her eyes follow. Her lips twitch on the left side; a flash of a crooked smile.
-
Damon is nudged awake by his mom. His dad is crouching next to Ahma, his face in a hardened grimace as he smiles with his moist eyes barely open. He caresses Ahma’s hand as he speaks to her in Cantonese. Ahma doesn’t react. Her eyes stare blankly into ceiling.
“Dad’s staying with her, let’s go.”
Damon and his mom trudge to the door, pushing open the heavy metal ward door. A harsh breath of wind from the closing door nudges the petals of the marigold, swaying hypnotically before one gently falls, gracefully settling on the pot as nightfall swallows the room.
-
Damon and his mom return back home, they are dressed in a plain white tee-shirt.
“It’s almost morning already. Try to get some sleep okay? The last day is always the hardest.”
Him mom pats him on the back before she takes out a cigarette pack and lighter from her bag and retreats into the balcony.
Damon saunters into his room; a blue aura surrounds him as he switches the desk light on. It exposes the messy worksheets, a half empty glass of water an empty jug on his desk, his unkempt blanket spilling over his pillow and bolsters on his bed.
He sniffles, grabbing the jug of water and returning to the kitchen, refilling it with the water boiler. He walks to a pot of flourishing marigold on the windowsill of their living room, watering it. It shimmers in the warm sunrise.