Moonflower

Christina Li, Canada

My mother only speaks of you when she is alone, sitting on the porch step with a cigarette between two fingers and her face turned towards the moon.

It happens once a month. On the nights when your cereuses open their white petals towards the night, I lie awake and listen for the soft click of her bedroom door, the whisper of her nightgown against the wooden floor, and the sliding of the screen door.

On those nights, I slip out of my bed and follow, careful to avoid the creaking fourth step on the way down. Out of habit, I pause outside your door. The cold air kisses my skin, and after a moment, I push the door open. You sleep, grey hair turned silver underneath the slant of moonlight from your window. I hold my breath until I see the slight rise and fall of your chest — only then, do I exhale and close the door gently behind me.

The house is silent as I make my way past the kitchen, past the living room with the piano tucked in the corner, a layer of dust on its once gleaming black and white keys. I stop at the window that looks onto our porch and ease it open — just enough to hear the rush of cars on the streets and the faint whisper of wind. I’m hit with the smoky smell of autumn rain, and I breathe in deeply.

Through the glass pane, I see my mother.

She sits amid the ivory blossoms. Underneath the moonlight, she looks like a ghost — so much so that I feel my hand will pass right through her if I reach out to touch her.

I do not. Instead, I watch her roll her cigarette in her palm and wait for her to speak of you.

She takes another drag of her cigarette, the smoke curling into the night air. As a cold October breeze stirs, she shifts enough for me to catch a glimpse of her face, moonlit with sadness.

The unfamiliarity of it takes my breath away. Some people soften to sadness, like clay giving way to water. But my mother does the opposite — she hardens against it. In those moments where you forget her name, forget who you are, she turns away and ploughs on like nothing is wrong. Perhaps, I think, sometimes it is easier to be made of stone.

But she is not stone tonight. The sadness seeps from her, pouring from her skin like sand, bleeding into the ground, into the sky, until I look up and the world is painted by it. Then, she speaks.

Tonight, she speaks of a time when you brought her to see the Chinatown moonflowers that bloomed once a year in pitch darkness — on a night not unlike this one. The words pour out of her like water cascading from a brimming cup; they paint the memory in bold strokes and vivid colours — but none of them as vibrant as you.

“Moonflowers were your favourite,” she says, softly, wistfully, and blows smoke at the stars. From my place behind the window, I smile to myself. Of course you’d love a flora that took from the day and gave to the night. Do you remember the moonflowers? I want to ask you, but you’ve been so vacant lately, your words few and far in between. When you do speak, it is with half sentences that trail away, as if you’ve forgotten what you meant to say mid-thought. This is what Alzeimers does, and we are powerless against it. I see my mother’s shoulders stiffen, see her harden to stone before my eyes.

You called me by my mother’s name today, just before bed.

“Qiu Yue,” You said, beckoning to me from your chair by the window.“Come watch the rain with me. You always loved the rain.”

And I joined you, even though I’ve always hated the rain — the gloomy grey skies, the perpetual wetness. We looked out into the red-orange trees with branches that brushed against the sky. Pópó, I wanted to say, do you remember. . . But I did not. What I did instead was stay silent, my fingertips tracing the etched grooves on your chair. You hummed softly to the smattering of raindrops against the rooftops, and after a while, you drifted asleep.

I tucked a blanket around you and left you that way. And I thought about my mother and I — she turns into stone, while I turn away. We are the same — both of us believing that if we do not watch the sky fall, it will not fall.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts by the sliding of the screen door. My mother steps inside, bringing along with her the rustle of leaves and the song of cicadas. I hold my breath, sitting shock-still in the darkness. She reaches the base of the stairs. Stops. And then, so softly that I almost miss it:

“Don’t stay up too late, Ying Yue.”

I startle. How long has she known? And I think of her pulling the stories from her memory, showing me them in the only way she knew how. I think of you, pópó, and my heart clenches because I think I am a little like my mother, too — scared, and grieving for something not yet lost.

But tonight, I think of moonflowers and say, “She’s not gone, you know.”

My mother flinches, and in the darkness, I feel the silence stretching between us. It’s too dark to make out her face, but I imagine the marble cracking, ivory pieces falling away and shattering at her feet. I imagine her reaching for me in the darkness, bridging the chasm between us.

Instead, she walks up the stairs without another word.

At night, I think of all the memories you’ve lost, like water slipping through cupped palms. I think of my mother’s hard silence, and my nights spent with my head against the wall — listening to memories. Against my eyelids, I see your moonflowers — the ones you’ve planted in our yard so many years ago, and their snow-white petals upturned towards the night sky, their beauty fleeting. Tomorrow morning, they will be gone. You’ve always loved them for this very reason — their evanescence. And I think about this as I lay awake for a long, long time.

How do you love something that slips past your fingers?

As I start drifting to sleep, I think of the laugh lines around your face, the way you watch the rain and your careful hands as you tend to your blossoms. And the answer comes to me:

You learn to love the touch of it against your palm.

~

When the sun rises on, it is as if nothing has changed. My mother is still stone, silent and unyielding — stiffening when she sees you turn vacantly to the window, your breakfast plate untouched.

I know it as soon as I walk down the stairs –— it is one of your bad days.

“Qiu Yue,” you say, “Will you come with me to the market today? I must buy some pork. Ah, and the moonflowers will bloom tonight. I know you love them ...”

“Of course, ah-ma. We’ll go after you eat,” my mother says, her voice strained, gaze not meeting mine. You have not walked on the streets of the market for fifteen years — not after my mother moved us to Canada. For a second, I catch a glimpse of longing on your face, before it is quickly swept away.

Through our window, I look for your moonflowers, their petals now hidden away in their green buds. You follow my gaze, and your face lights up.

“Aren’t they beautiful?”

And perhaps this is what does it. I take your hand, my own covering your own. You look at me and smile, and I see a brief moment of sharp clarity in your eyes.

“Ying Yue,” you say, softly. And I close my eyes, holding onto this moment as long as I can before it slips past my palms. Will you remember me tomorrow? I do not know, but I have today — this instant — and I exhale. It is enough.

“Pópó?” I say, “Do you remember the moonflowers in Chinatown?” My mother looks at me, her eyes sharp. It takes me a second to realize their sharpness is from the tears welling up in them, spilling down her cheeks. She wrings the towel in her hand, and turns away.

I see you reach for them, desperately trying to grasp for them. I hold your hands in mine and wait, and finally, you exhale.

“I don’t... I don’t remember.” Your features droop, and the sadness seeps from you, colouring our kitchen in blue. You turn your face to me, and I am struck by how sad you look, as if you’ve lost a piece of yourself. And perhaps, in some ways, you have.

Finally, finally, it is my mother who speaks. She paints the memory with vivid brushstrokes dipped in vibrant hues of yellow and orange, and when I close my eyes, I can see the bustling streets, swinging red lanterns and carved dragon statues. She gives this piece back to you, and you smile.

For a moment we just listen — all of us wrapped in layers and layers of remembering.

It is a fleeting moment, I realize, as I look at my mothers softened features, and the glow in your cheeks. It will be gone when this recount ends— but maybe, maybe, that is okay. After all, there are thousands of memories, each one as vibrant as the last.

I open the windows to the faint, sweet scent of moonflowers, and I let our happiness and sorrows seep into the sky.

Christina is a Chinese-Canadian student in Grade 11, currently studying in Canada.