ONE
OUR FRONT PORCH IS A mess. Stepping around a discarded skateboard and a rusty tricycle, I avoid a couple of splintery wooden chairs and make my way down the steps. As I cross the street to the old Johnson place, I move slowly, casually, in case eyes are tracking me. The riskiest part of this escape is ducking behind the overgrown oleander bushes. But I’m careful as always.
There.
Now I’m hidden.
But I’m not inside yet.
Ma’s makeshift wire twist still keeps the flap of fencing attached to its post. I unfasten it and the section swings slightly into the abandoned Johnson property like a gate, leaving just enough room for me to slip through. I came here almost every day last summer, and this summer, I plan to do the same. That’s one advantage to living with three busy people—I can come and go without a lot of questions.
The first time I crawled through this opening, I was four years old. I’d followed Ma across the street and into the prickly rosemary bushes. When she spotted me, she smiled, led me inside, and asked me to keep her escape a secret. Now I’m the only person on earth who knows how to get into Ashar Jaiga, as Ma and I called it. Ma’s name, Asha, which means “hope,” Ma’s place, Ashar Jaiga. Place of Hope.
I need a dose of hope after my last conversation with Mr. Marvin. “Time steals your memories, Pandita,” he told me. “These days I can’t even recall the sound of my mother’s voice.” And then he’d sighed, a long, sad exhale that felt like it drew the breath out of me, too. “Work hard to remember, kid. I wish I had.”
That’s why I come here—to remember. I make my way between the oaks, pass an old water tank, and push through the tangle of weeds in what used to be straight rows of apricot trees. A few are starting to bear fruit. Every July, Ma and I tasted the ripe apricots that fell without getting bruised. We never took any home; they were ours to borrow, not to claim, Ma told me.
Roses, lilies, and lavender grow in the garden. The house didn’t last as long as the garden and orchard, and what’s left of it is rusted and broken. The front steps collapsed long before Ma started bringing me along, so I have to reach for the railing to pull myself up onto the sagging porch.
Here it is. My destination. A two-person porch swing—Ma’s and mine.
I sink into one of the faded, flowery cushions. The glider still works and there’s a spray can of oil nearby that I use if it starts to creak. I like it quiet—no sounds except for leaves rustling and birds singing. For a while, I sit there swinging. A dove hidden somewhere in the orchard sings a mournful tune. The melody reminds me of Ma singing.
She was quiet and so am I, but here, words poured out like the streams that water my grandparents’ jute farm. Sitting side by side on this swing, she showed me how to weave garlands. Once our heads were crowned with flowers, she’d listen while I talked about school or shared my poems. Then I’d listen while she sang or told stories from the village where she’d grown up. Time seemed to stand still while I heard about close calls with crocodiles hidden along muddy banks, festival celebrations with cousins, rescuing chickens from a python that had crawled into the coop, and how she’d use rice powder paint to create alpana designs on the front step.
I pick up the cushion beside me and unbutton the cover. Hidden under the padding are my most precious possessions. First, four handwritten lavender-scented notes from Ma. They’re short and I have them memorized, but I always open them anyway. I like to picture my mother’s long, graceful fingers guiding a pen across the card, bangles clinking as she shaped the curves, dots, and lines of her penmanship. They’re all addressed to Dearest Pandu, and each one is signed Forever Yours, Ma.
When I long to be back in the village, being with you makes me feel at home again.
Your gift of words will bring joy and hope to the world.
Your quiet, listening spirit helps me share things I keep deep inside.
Reading so many good stories has made you courageous and loving.
Rummaging again inside the cushion, I pull out a ribbon-tied stack of notes in my handwriting and a box of her scented stationery. Only two blank cards and matching envelopes are left now, one here and one in my room, and they’re so old I can hardly smell any lavender. Ma used to buy them in bulk, but from where? I have no idea, and I can’t ask Baba. There’s nothing worse than seeing his jawline tighten at the sound of her name. Uncapping the pen I’ve brought along, I take one of the notecards and start writing.
June 13, 1980. My darling Ma. It’s my thirteenth birthday, so here I am. I met my goals from last year: to write one poem a month and read at least twenty-five books. This year, I can’t think of any goal to set. All I really want is to go back in time, and that’s impossible.
Anyway, Indy’s cooking a special dinner and there’s a pile of presents waiting. My best present, though, is that today was the last day of seventh grade. Now I get three blissful months before eighth grade. A whole summer without having to see Katrina Reed glued to Jemma’s side, watching them pretend I don’t exist.
Indy’s probably wondering where I am, so I should get back. Ma, it’s like I’m in a boat and you’re on the shore and time takes us further apart with every birthday.
I miss you.
I love you.
Forever Yours,
Pandu.
As I untie the ribbon and add this note to the others I’ve written, a twinge of worry over Mr. Marvin’s words makes my stomach jump. Are my memories of Ma slipping away? The last birthday she celebrated with me was my tenth. All five of us were in India for some of that summer, but the days after June 23rd, 1977 are blurry in my mind. Mostly, I remember that we came back to California without her. Maybe that’s why the last thing I’ve hidden inside this pillow is my favorite—a gift that my grandfather tucked into my hand before we left for the airport.
Copyright © 2023 by Mitali Perkins
