My Open Land

Nostalgia. It lifts you from despair and places you into a land of freedom. Once, life had meaning without having direction. I could escape to a place that was as vast as my vivid imagination. The only insensitive thing was the wind that threatened to carry my little body with it. The light from the sun mirrored the glow in my heart, blazing bright, offering life. I was once at peace with nature, away on a cloud while still firm on the earth.

The only thing on my to-do list was to visit the meadows a short walk away from my old family home. I strode into the open stretch of land and tossed my picnic blanket on the floor, before lowering myself to the ground and stretching out my long legs. It was moments away from dusk, the sky preparing to submerge into darkness - quiet time and space to be alone with my thoughts. With a heavy sigh, I close my eyes. 

My mind runs back in time to a scene of a nine-year-old firecracker and her lively father. Both in love with the liberty that the meadows provided. Nothing had changed as I’m seated here now - nothing had tainted its beauty. Not even from the first day that I came here when I was six or seven. Striking shades of green from the grass and leaves of the trees, pinks, and blues of flower petals perfectly scattered across the land. I loved feeling the subtle crunch of grass beneath my feet and putting all my trust in the sturdy branches as I aimed for new heights. The meadows portrayed the epitome of health. I remember the cleanliness of the air that entered my body and filled my lungs, how wonderful it was to breathe. Butterflies of all colours would float around me, calling me to dance with them, and I would obey, throwing my arms to the sky and wiggling my hips to the imaginary beat we had created in the breeze.

Every day after school, rain or shine, my father would bring me to the meadows - our secret hideaway from the world. He would carry me on his shoulders, high into the atmosphere, before placing me onto the ground and watching me run wild, my laughter ringing through the air. He taught me how not to fear the mini beasts that roamed the soil, how to enjoy the simple details, how to be grateful for being alive. I saw everything through an enhanced lens, more insightful than others of my age. I understand now, at twenty-three, just how much being here had ignited my soul. It was a different kind of feeling, one that gave you eternal satisfaction.

          Sometimes my mother accompanied us on our adventures, where she would stop every ten minutes, to take photos of us in our element. Pictures of me, with flower tiaras delicately placed on my head in the Spring and Summer, pictures of me standing amid hues of auburn and amber in the Fall. There were some of my father and me in full pursuit, racing between the trees, and one of my favourites: me sitting on the floor in a red floral dress with a bright red ladybug perched on my nose. The panic that quickly relinquished once I began to fall in love with it. And there was the sunset. The staggering reddish-orange that painted the sky and washed over the meadows, the most beautiful contrast. We would sit down on these rare occasions and watch the sky fade to purple, the way the light captured and embraced the true essence of beauty. I would watch it unfold right in front of my eyes. One picture that I still hold close is one of me in the sunset, far enough from the camera that my features became indistinguishable. All that was left was my shadow, a young girl knowing that the sky was too far but still reaching for it anyway.

I was suddenly shaken from my trance by a strong wind that smacked against my back, sending chills down my spine. The abruptness was all too familiar, how easily you can go from being on a high to plummeting too low. When nostalgia evaporates, and you’re left alone.

I was too young, too naïve, to understand that life like this doesn’t last forever. I was once a wishful thinker, but that behaviour soon left me. My father started to become “too busy” once he collected me from school, that he had to drop me home immediately and attend to his business. At first, I came to terms with his decision. It’s okay, next week then! That’s what I would tell myself. And I would dream about the meadows to pass the time. I spoke to my friends at school about how we could explore together. But I ended up repeating the same words - next week then - until it became second nature - like software yet to be updated. I believed that he would take me back to my happy place. My friends gave up on the idea, and it seemed my father had too.

          Somewhere along the line, my mother and father began to fight. Harsh, bitter, words that tore through the walls and disrupted my peace. Words that called death, death of their relationship. I didn’t dare to approach them when it got like this. I had never thought my parents could speak so disrespectfully to one another or anyone. It ripped me apart. At that time, I was suffocating, wallowing in misery, and not having the mental capacity to understand why my life was morphing into something so ugly. My father took me to the meadows the odd few times, but it didn’t feel the same. I started to feel disconnected, my head was in there, but my heart had been carried away by the storm. After we had spent enough time out, he would leave me at the doorstep with a forehead kiss before hurrying away into the night.

          My mother began to break down, slowly, and then all at once, her spirit engulfed by fierce emotions of agony. While I was aware of what happened when parents no longer love each other, thanks to the sitcoms I watched instead of the tasteless shows for kids, it became apparent to me that this was not the case. My mother was just as confused as I was. The pair of us left to console one another, without knowing why. I would watch the blue in her eyes cloud, the wrinkles on her forehead deepened. And just like that, feelings of gratitude turned to rage. Rage at my father for stripping us of his love and attention, for always hiding.

Why are you hiding from me?

After a few weeks, my dad brought me to the meadows after school. And for the first time in the longest time, it felt real. It felt normal, blissful. We played games in the grass and eagerly climbed the trees. We watched the sunset, although it wasn’t as mesmerising as usual. It was mildly bleak, almost like the sun was out of energy, but I didn’t care - I took what I could get. I wished my mother were there too. The arguments at home had subsided because he wasn’t around as much. Asking him where he would go left me with an answer that wasn’t good enough, but one that I didn’t think I should question. He told me that as the meadows gave me freedom, his “business” gave him freedom too. That night, before he left me at the doorstep, he hugged me so wholesomely that it took me aback. I remember nestling my head into his broad chest, taking in his warm scent, my arms not long enough to fully wrap around him. He kissed me once again on my forehead like any other time. What I didn’t realise until the following day was that it was a kiss goodbye.

He was too reckless with his freedom, caught up in a thrill, perhaps trying to fill a void. I had questions at nine years old, and I still have some now. What he did didn’t lead to freedom - it led to metal bars and isolation from the world. It led to a loss. We had all lost. My freedom lost along with his. I didn’t understand at that age. What the officers were saying, I couldn’t understand it. Supply of drugs. Illegal. Cannabis. My father’s name. A life with just my mother and me. The only thing I could do was cry. Cry and feel my heart shed, layer by layer until it was left raw. And although we survived, I walked through my teenage years, never feeling fully present. Desensitised and always feeling alone. At first, I would go to the meadows with my mother to try and feel close to him. Sifting through bittersweet memories, wishing I could go back. Until eventually, we just stopped altogether. I didn’t hate the meadows; I could never hate this place. But we realised that we had to let him go, that meant for me to let go of my open land too.

Now, I’m here today after fourteen years. Fourteen years of unanswered questions and lack of closure. Fourteen years of a life without a father. The end of fourteen-year imprisonment. I finally get to see him.

Tonight.