Windows

Windows

Chyina Powell

Silence but for the sound of tea leaves being sifted into an old Brown Betty. The smell of damp leaves wafting in from the open kitchen window reminded her that autumn was well on its way. Sighing into the tea, Ebony concerned herself with sugar cubes and cream, a small respite from her thoughts, thoughts of gourds and crunching leaves, smells of pumpkin pie and apple cider. Instead she dutifully washed an apple, sliced it on her bamboo cutting board, a gift from someone special, and made her way into the sitting room. Filled with soft music in a language she couldn’t understand, the sitting room was where she’d taken tea since moving into the house. A tray covered with all the requisite dressings in her hands as though she had guests, but she had not entertained in some time. Yet the routine soothed her and thus she kept it up every afternoon at one thirty. While music played, she took note of her belongings and herself. Today she chose to focus on a decorative egg purchased by some relative and regifted until it had finally reached her hands. Hand-painted horses and orchids gazed up at her from its cream façade, asking her why no one had wanted it. In truth, Ebony kept it simply because it was a gift, proof that someone still thought of her, even if these thoughts didn’t amount to much. She’d never understood the purpose of such knickknacks, impractical, space-consuming conversation pieces. She’d rather spend money on food, utensils, clothing, tools. Every item the woman had ever purchased had purpose. Utilitarian. That was the word for it. The egg sat on her mantle, second item from the middle, and it stuck out against the dark wood that came from an old boat made by an even older man who’d seemed to put Shou 52

Sugi Ban, the Japanese art of burning wood, to use whenever he could. In fact, the egg stood out from most of her belongings. Colorful as they were, it was clear that Ebony did not possess much white, cream or eggshell. It was not due to the color showing dirt easily or because she favored color so immensely. She simply hated white. How everyone assumed white meant a blank slate she couldn’t comprehend. White was empty, lonely, unknown. It was lack, not potential. Sipping her tea, she took a deep breath. Lemongrass and clove pervaded her nostrils, an herbal blend bought from a farmer’s market. The tea was quickly becoming one of her favorites. The sound of the apple crunching in her mouth, the long crescendo of the harmonies in the background, this was her world. A world where shelves only held the useful and where leaves should never crunch nor the air smell of pumpkin and pine. In her world, summer turned into winter with nothing in between. Tea was always at the same time, books were always arranged by how enjoyable they were, and all the homes had gardens. Strange to think that her world was not the same that most lived in. To think that there, in their world, people had white walls in their homes, drank apple cider and craved the scent of multicolored leaves on a cool autumn day. Somehow, her apple had lost its flavor and as did her tea, but she drank it still, as routines were not to be broken. The cream egg had been a gift, one she’d readily accepted. Every item on her mantle was a treasured present from someone. The oldest was a small hand-carved box that she’d received when she was a child. Her father had always been crafty but she’d never received such a treasure from him. Instead, it came from a kind old man who’d ran a bakery. The children called him Mr. Bread, his clothes forever covered in flour, his eyes always as warm as his oven. She’d been fourteen when he died. She’d been ten when

she got her first ever present. His present. Her thoughts distracting her, Ebony spilled tea onto her tan slacks. It was hot, but it didn’t burn. And it wouldn’t stain so she simply sopped up the excess with a napkin and continued to entertain herself with thoughts of the past. The past when things were still good. Autumn had just begun that year, leaves were falling majestically off trees only to have children jump into them. She’d been beautiful then, her smile wide and her teeth white, lips full. There’d been an art festival in the park and Ebony had attended. She had always loved seeing what others could do with their hands. From paintings to clothes to food, the world was full of smiling people all enjoying the wonders of each other. She’d attended with a few of her closest friends. They met up at the entrance and planned their day. They had agreed to leave after the concert and go to dinner but that didn’t happen. Ebony had been wearing a lavender sweater and matching cardigan, one of her favorites at the time. She drunk hot chocolate and giggled at the jokes of the various vendors. Ebony could recall how she and her friends had danced on the grass, danced until they were out of breath and laughing in the face of exertion. They’d all been too tired to continue their evening and so they said their goodbyes with promises of a next time. Ebony could recall it perfectly, she had yet to move into her current house, had yet begun to cling to her status quo. Shaking herself, Ebony stood. Dwelling on the past in such a manner would never be useful, it would only dredge up regrets and wishes best left forgotten. Turning off her music she sighed and picked up her tray. On her way to the kitchen, she took notice of the blank spots along the hallway, lighter than the rest of the wall. Some oval, some rectangular. Perhaps she could scrub the walls to even the tone or maybe she would paint them. 54

They wouldn’t be taupe as they were now, perhaps a pale orange or a light grey. There were no such pale spots in the kitchen however, and she gladly washed her dishes. First the knife and cutting board, then her cup and saucer and plate. Finally, she cleaned out her beautiful Brown Betty that had held her tea for as long as she could remember. Once again, the scent of leaves and rain tickled her nose. She’d met that person on a day much like today. She had been rushing home to read a book that she had been neglecting and had stumbled across him, much to her horror and dismay. He refused to accept a simple apology and had demanded lunch in return for ruining his shoes which had been a dirty blue color. At the time, she thought that they were the shoes of a man who didn’t have much of a personality or too much of a bad one. They had gone to lunch and then to another and another. She hadn’t gone to lunch in years. Now when she went out, it was only for necessities. No festivals or dancing or picture taking. The man had loved taking photos, one to commemorate each day. He even had a dark room set up in his basement. He liked the smell of the chemicals and being able to watch the pictures slowly come into existence. She couldn’t stand the smell but loved the pictures just the same. He’d frame them and there were dozens of albums of the photos he’d taken: people, sunsets, landscapes, her. Hundreds and thousands. Some had been gifts, others he’d published. And she, she began listening to music from around the world. Maybe she wanted to learn another language or maybe she had wanted to appear more cultured, that was something Ebony could no longer recall. It was funny how the mind could keep some information and purge what it thought unnecessary. She could remember what he’d worn that autumn day when they met but not what she had worn. Ebony could hear the sounds of album pages flipping in her mind but not the words to 55

the songs she had listened to. Ebony finished her dishes and made sure to place everything in its proper place. It was time to tend to her flowers. As routine dictated, she attended her indoor plants first, watering them, checking their health, the amount of sunlight. And then she donned an old leather jacket. It wasn’t a present, more of a hand-me-down but Ebony treasured it just the same. No, in truth she loved it more than any gift. The sun shone on her face as she wordlessly slipped through the back door and walked towards the side of the house. They didn’t dance or drink hot chocolate, but the flowers were her friends. Meticulously, she checked for weeds, she trimmed, she watered, she thought of only the flowers and making sure they were as beautiful as possible. Lastly, she checked the patch. It had sprung up the year after she determined she no longer enjoyed the season between summer and winter, the year after her coat had lost its owner. It was almost magical, a small patch of wildflowers. At first, she had decided to either cut them or replant them somewhere else, but days went by and for some reason she allowed the flowers to stay. The next year she began watering them. The year after she built a small fence around them with stone. This year the patch was as it ever was, full of diverse colors and heights. She watered the flowers and gazed down at them. This year she would dry some and use them as potpourri. The wind blew, making her shiver in the oversized coat. Somehow, time had gotten away from her. She’d stared at the patched until three forty-five. It was practically time. The house was warm, but she kept the coat on, as was the norm, and headed upstairs. There were more blank spaces on the walls, more walls to be repainted. Ebony found what she was looking for on her dresser and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Brown eyes that had lost some of their color, brown lips in need of balm. She took measure of her face and swallowed

hard. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then she ran her hands over her head, she’d shaved it all off almost two months ago. She hadn’t wanted to, her head was a bit large, but it wasn’t her choice. The uneven patches of hair disgusted her. She was still getting used to her new reflection, couldn’t come to terms with it yet. Ebony sighed, lay down and tried to remember how the coat used to smell. When it was new the soft leather smelled faintly of the treatment they had wiped it with. Later, it smelled like its owner, of photo chemicals and warm food. That smell had persisted for so long until one autumn. That autumn had ruined everything, and she was forced to adapt. Time passed, and the coat smelled less and less like its owner, yet it did not come to smell like her. It smelled like the color white. But white had no room in her world so she descended the stairs and hung the coat up where it had always been, third from the right in the closet off the kitchen. Clouds were beginning to cover the sun; the days would soon grow colder and autumn would come. She walked into the kitchen and closed the window.