Eternal

It was beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful.

For a moment, the middle-aged woman lost all sense of reality. Her backyard looked utterly surreal as it glistened in the glorious morning sunshine. She bet that not even a princess’s view from her castle balcony could compare to the sight before her. A thrill of pleasure skipped through her veins and she silently uttered words of gratitude for this small blessing.

Her gaze wandered until they were at last transfixed on a particularly alluring aspect of the quiet backyard; the rose bush. It was a sight which never failed to make her morning. The deep blood red flowers were speckled with delicate dew drops, each drop glistening with an enchanted beauty and perched on the soft petals.

She twiddled the fountain pen in her fingers, the small touch seemingly able to jolt her back to reality, like a child tugging on their mother’s arm. Before her was a thick notebook, opened and turned to a fresh new page. She sat at the quaint small table situated in the centre of her little writer’s “hideout”, a pretty little shed. It had been mirrored to look like a much smaller version of a cottage one might find in the English countryside. It was a replica of the one her father had built for her as a child. The replica had been built by her husband.

She sat there, alone but peaceful in the backyard. It was around 6:30 in the morning and her husband had already set out for work. Her six-year-old daughter was still in dreamland and the writer was hoping to send a draft of her novel to her editor by 6:00pm.

Time to work on that.

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It was two hours later when the author was suddenly jolted from her writing by a loud knock at the shed’s door. Her daughter’s beaming face peered at her through the glass window.

The mother chuckled, pushed aside her notebook and stood up to open the door. The daughter squealed as the mother picked her up and swung her around in the air.

“Now what are you doing up so early?” the mother asked as she finally planted the girl back down on the grass.

A sheepish expression came over the daughter’s face and the mother caught on. With a laugh, she said,

“Oh, I know! You’re excited to see Deema and her parents, aren’t you?”

Her daughter nodded, her heart-shaped face bopping up and down. The mother smiled.

Deema was her daughter’s best friend. Both girls wanted to become bakers and Deema’s parents, who owned a bakery, were letting them come spend the day at work with them. Both girls were very excited. Deema’s mother offered to pick up the writer's daughter and would be arriving around 10:30.

As she took the daughter’s small hand in hers, the mother said, “Come on, then. I’ll make us both some breakfast.”

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Hanna.

She hadn’t thought about her in over a year but when she had bid her daughter and Deema farewell, she had been reminded of her own childhood best friend. She was struck by a pang of nostalgia.

The writer returned to the backyard and squinted as she glanced up at the sunny sky. It reminded her of that day. The last day she had spent with Hanna.

August 24^th. Twenty-four years ago. She had been 12-years old at the time. She remembered-

The woman jumped up in surprise as something brushed against her body but then smiled. It was a squirrel. The animal peered up at her expectantly.

“I didn’t forget you, don’t worry,” the writer murmured. She walked over to the other end of the backyard and entered the dainty shed. From a shelf, she pulled down a glass jar filled with acorns. She purchased some every week for the squirrels.

She returned to the waiting animal and it watched eagerly as she poured some onto the grass. It scurried over to the pile of goods and began to nibble at them.

She remembered staring up at the sunset. It had been a beautiful and glorious sunset. She could hear Hanna, Hanna’s mother and her own mother laughing, while the fathers chatted about something. The two families had been very good friends. The mothers had been childhood friends, having grown up together in Malaysia. They had shared an unbreakable bond.

“True friendship is a blessing,” her mother had told her. She had always felt like her friendship with Hanna had been such a gift.

The author sat down at her table, page open where she had left off. She couldn’t write, however. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She thought of Hanna.

She remembered having been awe-struck by the sheer beauty of the skies. They had been the perfect blend of red, orange and purple, the characteristics colours of a sunset. She had remembered pretending that her mind was a camera and, by blinking, she had pretended to snap a photo of the beautiful picture in front of her. She had wished she could keep the image vividly embedded in her mind.

“What are you looking at?”

At the sound of the teasing voice, she had turned to face Hanna.

“The skies. I love sunsets."

“Me too,” Hanna had agreed, coming to stand beside her.

The two had stood silently beside each other, admiring the skies. Blissful chatter was the only sound to be heard in the background. At last, Hanna had spoken.

“You know what’s weird?” she had asked.

“What?”

“The skies look extra red today,” she had said softly, staring up at them.

Suddenly, the writer turned around. Yes, it was still there, the glass case and the object contained inside. The object she had been safeguarding for the past twenty-four years. Her thoughts wandered again.

“Now what are you two up to?”

The girls had turned around to find Hanna’s mother’s smiling face beaming down at them. The woman draped her arms over the two girls and Hanna squeezed her mother’s hand affectionately.

“Just watching the skies,” she, the author, had said. Then, she had asked, “Is there any food left?”

“Still hungry?” Hanna had asked with her teasing smile. She had returned the grin, “Of course.”

Deema’s mother had laughed, “Of course, love, there is plenty left. Go help yourself.”

The author ran a careful finger over the glass case. It was polished and crystal clear; she took special care of it.

Later that evening, when she had finished eating, Hanna had said, “Oh man, I almost forgot. Mom asked me to clean the attic later. Nobody's been up there in like, well, a while!"

She had chuckled, “I'll help you."

"Are you sure?"

She had nodded and her best friend had grinned, slinging an arm over her shoulder.

“You’re the best. Maybe we will find some cool stuff up there!”

Cool stuff indeed. Carefully, the author lifted the glass case over the object. It had remained intact and in the same aesthetically rustic condition that it had been in when they had first discovered it. Slowly, she took the object in her hands.

Once Hanna had notified the parents of where they were going, the two girls had scurried inside. They had bounded up the flight of stairs and into Hanna’s room. They had paused, staring up at the attic door attached to the ceiling.

“So, you've never been in there before?” she had asked and Hanna had shaken her head. With a grimace, her best friend had added,

“I hope there are no raccoons up there or something.”

She had shuddered. She had been a little afraid of raccoons.

Hanna had crinkled up her nose as she had stared up at the attic door.

“Man, it’s probably really dusty up there!”

While Hanna had gone to fetch two brooms for them, she had stared up at the attic door curiously. What was inside? Her own home hadn't had an attic. She had been a little excited to see what might be up there. Hanna’s mother had laughed and told the girls not to get there hopes up because as far as she knew, there wasn’t anything up there. Then again, she had added, she had never been up there before. The house had belonged to her parents but Hanna’s room used to belong to Hanna's grandmother. Hanna’s mother hadn’t cared much to explore the attic.

Hanna had returned with the two brooms.

“Ok, let’s get cleaning!”

“One problem,” she had said, turning to her eager friend. “How are we going to get up there?”

“Oh, that’s easy!” Hanna had said, her eyes brightening. “We’ll just move the bed!”

Before she could react, Hanna had already been on the other side of the bed and shoving it in her direction. With her help, they had moved the bed underneath the attic. As Hanna had predicted, the bed was high enough to reach the attic.

“Careful!” she had called to her friend as Hanna had stood on her tiptoes to reach the attic door. Carefully, she had shoved it aside.

“You’re back?” she chuckled softly as the squirrel scurried back over to her. “You’re hungry today, aren’t you?”

The squirrel squeaked as if in reply. She placed down the object in her hands and reached for the acorn jar once more. She opened it, dumped more of the contents onto the grass, and the squirrel began to eat again.

“Hey, it isn’t as bad as I thought!” Hanna had said and she had agreed. The attic was rather bare. It had been dark but they had been able to make out the wooden flooring and a small window at the far end. There had been a couple of boxes, however, in the corner of the attic.

She had rubbed a finger across the wall and noted the dust that came off of it.

“Pretty dusty, though!”

Hanna had her eyes fixed on the two boxes.

“I wonder what’s in those!”

She, too, had wondered and had turned to her friend with a smile.

“Let’s see!”

The squirrel was satisfied and sat on the grass contently after finishing up its meal. She placed back down the jar, made a mental note to buy more acorns that week and picked up the object again.

And then, Hanna had screamed. A shrieking squirrel had emerged from behind one of the boxes and raced past the two girls indignantly. She had burst out laughing. Hanna had reddened.

“Oops, didn’t see that coming.”

“Let’s hope there aren’t anymore!”

Gingerly and cautiously this time, Hanna had pulled one of the boxes out into the open. No more squirrels had emerged.

The two girls had looked at each other excitedly.

“Maybe there is something cool up here, after all!” Hanna exclaimed.

“Mama thought there was nothing up here.”

Slowly, Hanna had opened up the old box. Their faces had fallen. Inside the box had just been an old tea set, not what they had been hoping for.

“Aww,” Hanna had said disappointedly, closing the flaps of the box, again. “I was hoping for something really cool like, you know, uh, I don’t know but you know what I mean!”

She had laughed, “Well, we still have one more box!”

“You can check that out if you want. It’s probably just more tea sets.”

“Ok!”

As Hanna had begun to sweep the floors of the attic, she had slowly brought out the other box. She had opened it up and peered inside.

Suddenly, she remembered she had forgotten to water the garden. She headed back inside the shed and pulled out the hose. She connected it to the faucet attached to the exterior of the shed and with one swift movement, she turned it on. Water sprinkled out of the hose and onto the green grass. After a few minutes, she placed it away and retrieved the precious object.

She had gasped. Hanna had whipped around.

“What happened?”

She had bid her over hurriedly. “Look!”

Hanna had scurried over beside her and her eyes had widened like saucers.

“Oh my…”

A sword. They had found a sword. The one that she now held in her hands. It was a simple sword with mysterious writing engraved in its purple blade and silver handle. Only years later would she learn that the writing was in Hawaiian. The blade was a bit curvaceous and though it appeared slightly rusted, it looked deadly sharp. The only word that they could make out was the last name of Hanna’s mother, written in English, her maiden name.

They had taken it to Hanna’s mother and she had been astonished at the find. She had not remembered it being in the attic as a child, though she admitted again that she never cared to explore it. She had been fairly certain, however, that her parents had not known about it either.

“Hmm, but it has your name on it,” the husband had said. “It certainly belongs to your family.”

But to whom specifically had it belonged? They had never figured that out. The girls had vowed to try and figure it out.

But their plans had been permanently destroyed.

A tear trickled down the author’s cheek as she remembered the horror and pain of the next morning. The tear droplet splattered against the old sword.

Hanna had passed away the next morning.

The doctor had said that it was because of her heart condition, the one that had plagued her since birth. In the blink of an eye, her sweet best friend had been gone.

The author inhaled deeply but then she smiled softly. What was it that Hanna had said to her? Something that her own parents had said to her.

Be grateful, girl. When you’re grateful, there is always something to be happy about!

And she was grateful, would always be grateful, for Hanna and the good times they had shared.

The author wiped away the tears and placed the old sword back in its case.

When Hanna had passed away, she had vowed to still try and figure out the mystery behind this old sword. She had never been able to, however. No one had seemed to know about its existence. She had even tried going to libraries and doing research but to no avail. Hanna’s parents had let her keep the sword, a gesture which she appreciated more deeply than words could say. It was the last remnant she had of Hanna, of the last moments they had spent together.

As she closed the lid of the glass case, she remembered an incident a few months back. Her daughter had come to visit her in the shed one morning, around this time, and she had seen the glass case.

“What’s that, mama?” she had asked as she had enveloped her mother in a bear hug. The author had smiled.



“It’s a mystery that I might never solve.”