Pieces

I sprint past the lined brick-houses, wooden sheds and fields of corn; the plants stand thin, straight and green, wearing little yellow hats where the corn has started to grow. 

They spread as far as my eyes can see, looking like soldiers in green uniforms and unfortunate headgear, marching in impeccably straight lines. It's pretty impressive, one might think. 

But the fields don't interest me right now. I turn left onto a mud trail, now going even faster as the path slopes downwards.

Soon I reach my grandpa's house. I know he's not home, because it's rush hour at the town market and people don't usually leave till it starts getting pretty dark. He must be haggling his last few sales of the day.

I open the fence gate and jog on over to the backyard, where my red and black bike lays in the corner. I pick it up after I open the gate. As I mount my bike, I accidentally kick one of my grandma's clay pots and it breaks into two pieces. 

I climb off my bike, and decide to hide the broken pot for now. Some work with wet clay and it'll be new again in no time. Or maybe glue? I'll fix it when I come back.

I whizz past the maize fields on my bike and as I see the sky turn to a hue of pink and orange, I worry that I might not make it in time today.

I stop as I reach the cliff. I never go beyond here. This is the point where the fields end and the city begins. I suppose it's a town, actually. Small. You can see the metalled roads in the distance, the two-three storeyed buildings; cars, buses, and a small railway station for our people and our harvest. And an airport. Nothing special. Not according to me. 

I check the time on my watch: 6:57. I stand my bike against the maple tree and sit down with my feet dangling off the edge of the cliff. The sun is preparing to set. Salem and I used to come here every Friday. 

Salem. She was my twin sister. We were seven minutes apart. We looked exactly the same, but I was nothing like her. She was confident, courageous, witty. I was not. Sometimes I wonder how.

We used to watch the airplane take off from the airport at Brookwell. It was the only plane out of our town, and it flew out once a week, on Friday. I don't even know where it went.

Salem was adventurous. I liked it here, but she always wanted to leave this town. Grandpa told us we came here on that plane, years ago. Our parents left us here and went to France. They promised grandpa they'd return. They never did.

~

I sit by the cliff alone, thinking about the last time I was here with Salem. It was months ago. We talked about a story grandpa had told us that day. Laughed. Talked about school, and then about our parents and France, which was a frequent topic we discussed here. So much has changed since then.

At 7 after we waved the plane goodbye, she had turned to me and said, 'Wanna go to Brookwell tomorrow? We could ask grandpa, take the bus. It'll be a fun visit, and maybe we could also go to the airport and find out where that plane goes. Who knows, right? Maybe we'll go somewhere someday.'

The next day, Salem and I took the bus. We ate hot dogs and drank soft drinks as we walked through the town. I bought a mini Eiffel Tower from a gift shop just out of spite of our parents. Salem looked pleased. When we ran out of money, she stole two ice cream sundaes from a store. Chocolate chip cookie dough, I think. "Guess we won't be coming here again," she had said. 

After that is a blur. We went back to the bus stop. I waited there while Salem went to the airport, telling me she would meet me here in half an hour. I waited. 

I should have gone with her. Why didn't I? I don't even remember now.

About 5 minutes before the bus was scheduled to arrive, just when I was beginning to get worried, I heard a loud crash in the distance. It was probably some kind of an accident. Those happen there a lot. I turned to the other side towards the airport, scanning for signs of Salem.

The bus arrived. Salem didn't. I waited for five more minutes and then I searched. I searched the airport, looked everywhere. I called grandpa. We informed the authorities. Nothing. 

Days passed. They told grandpa she died in the tractor crash, the one I'd heard that evening. 

I didn't believe them. They hadn't found a body. I couldn't help but wonder if maybe she took that plane. Maybe she went to France. Maybe she'll come back. Maybe she's alive.

 ~

At 7:00, right on cue, I see the plane in the sky, taking off from the airport. I watch. "Bye," I say as I wave. It disappears into the clouds.

Now, the silence that follows. It is deafening - complete, absolute - I start to cry. There is no one here, I sob out loud, tears fill my eyes. Usually this doesn't make me cry. 

I miss Salem. More so here than back home. I'm always alone. Utterly alone. Except when I'm with grandpa. I realise he's alone too.

I suddenly remember Grandma's pot. The one that I broke today. Those pieces I can fix. Both of them are together. My other piece is either in France with my parents, better off without me; or dead. 

Sometimes I find myself wishing for the latter.

I wipe my eyes and grab my bike. I look at the maple tree, my tiny Eiffel Tower hidden in the leaves where it's tied to one of the branches. I turn back home. I hope I make it back in time to help grandpa with dinner.

Bye, Salem. See you next Friday. And the Friday after that. And the Friday after that.