Home.
The word was an alien in the dictionary of my life.
There are so many things that have been said about the word. Many theories about what the word means and is.
Some say it's a place. A place where they are perfectly content. A place where they are truly happy. A place where they are safe and utmostly comfortable. A place they belong.
Some say it's a person. Someone dear enough to them that they feel safe with him/her. Someone who embodies everything a home feels like. Safety. Comfort. Peace. A sense of belonging. Love. Happiness.
There are also others who say it's a thing. An object. A piece that makes them feel everything a home feels like. It could be a book, a poetry collection, an art, a song or any object they have a strong connection with.
I have never lived long enough in a place to call it a home. Never dwelled in a place where it felt like I truly belonged. There was always something… something to cross off the feeling of home.
At first, it would feel like it could be. I would be happy. I would feel safe and just when I began to feel like I could belong. Just when I start to get comfortable, some shit happens and what could have been home becomes hell.
First it was at the Meyers, Helen's family until her husband couldn't put up with a stranger's child anymore. Then it was the Jenkins, until Pete came along.
After them, it was the Freds until Williams lost his job, started drinking and became abusive. The Thompsons came next until Collins, their cousin, came visiting and tried to have a go at me. Of course, when I reported him to the Thompsons, they didn't believe me, they looked at me with disgust like I was a trash bag in their house that needed to be disposed of.
Except I never gave them the satisfaction of disposing me, of calling Helen and trashing me in front of her. I ran away that night and was on the point of freezing to death when I met Tat.
If there was ever a person who I would call home, it was Tat. He was not only my first love, he was my heart and as George Gordon Byron said in Don Juan, canto III:
"For without hearts there is no home."
With Tat, I felt safe. And with the Mischiefs, I was beginning to feel like I belonged until Lil' Tone got us entangled with Dread and his Urchins. And in an attempt to save me, Tat died.
As for an object I could call home, I guess it was the pendant. The silver-chained pendant I have always worn around my neck. The pendant was a disc of silver like a coin with a howling wolf before a full moon imprinted on the front and the word 'Silver' in cursive writing at the back.
Instinctively my hands go to it, I feel it's cold sting in my chest before I cup it between two of my fingers. I don't understand the howling wolf image nor can I make head or tail of the reverence and importance bestowed unto it in the letter.
Whatever you do, never take off her pendant and when she's old enough, instruct her, never ever to take it off and to always wear it hidden. Her life depends on it.
It sounds weird, but I have never
removed the damned thing. For fifteen years now, it has been chained around my neck, the sign of constant wear embellished on my neck and chest.
There have been times, I wanted to yank it off. Times I just wanted to remove it and throw it into a water body and watch it sink out of reach. But I only get close enough to unclasping it before the words, Her life depends on it, would reverberate through me and I'll clasp it back.
I hate them, my parents. I hate that they were vague. I hate that they were cryptic in their letter. I hate that they abandoned me and I hate that they brought me into this world knowing they would never be a part of my life.
I also hate the pendant, I hate its vagueness. I hate it's cold kisses to my chest. I hate that it reminds me of them. I hate that they left me and gave me no choice, but to live with a part of them hanging around my neck. And I hate that it has been with me long enough to become an attachment, a sense of safeness… a home no matter how much I hated it.
I let it drop to my chest as we came upon the address. Helen ran finishing touches on herself while I alighted.
Before me nestled among towering trees and lush greenery, was a cottage. Its walls were clad in weathered stone, with ivy in bloom and moss creeping up the sides. A chimney rose from the roof, puffing out gentle wisps of smoke from a fireplace that must be crackling within. The roof itself was a patchwork of curved tiles, with a few strategically placed skylights to let in natural light.
I was still admiring its sense of coziness when the lacquered wooden door, adorned with a brass doorknocker in the shape of a quill, opened.
I had run several images of how Sarah Grove, my supposed aunt, would look like, and this never came close.
She was young and gorgeous, barely in her mid-thirties with kinky curly black hair, pulled up in a loose bun, her eyes–the color of the sky on a sunny day just like this one. Her small lips, pink without any gloss or lipstick. Her nose–shaped like mine, slightly crooked. And her face, all grace curves and edges just like mine.
She wore a cream long sleeved cardigan over jeans shorts that ended in her thighs, exposing her tanned graceful legs. On her feet, she had pink fluffs. Like me, she wasn't tall, but she had a few inches on me yet her presence, her smile even the way she spoke and shook hands with Helen, showed that she was a woman whom her size doesn't bother or concern.
"Hello, niece", she said in that singsong voice of hers whilst standing before me. I could tell that she was evaluating me the same way I was doing her. Up close, I saw the resemblance, Helen spoke off, her hair was as dark as mine, my eyes maybe grey while hers were cerulean, but our brows were shaped the same with sparse curly hair. Our lips were the same shade of carnations. And our faces were hewn from the same sculpture.
I never knew what my mom looked like, it must've slipped their memory to add a picture of themselves in the letter, but she had to be just like Sarah.
I guess I have Sarah to thank for giving the woman who abandoned me a face.
"Hello, aunt" was my reply as I awkwardly thrust out a hand. Sarah laughed, her index finger to her nose as she shook with mirth.
"Oh, come on, that's no way to greet family" she beamed, pulling me to a warm hug. She smelled of coffee and wild roses.
When we pulled away from each other, she held me by the arm and gave me an intense look, then she smiled revealing teeth that were meant for cameras and thrilled, "You look just like her except the grey eyes of course, you must've gotten that from your dad. Come, let me show you the exterior before we go inside, hope you don't mind, Helen?"
" Oh, not at all. Go on, I will be right behind you."
She led me to the left side of the cottage where a wooden fence encompassed a lush, vibrant garden filled with flowers, herbs, and vegetables. A small, babbling brook ran through the garden, providing a soothing background noise. Making me wonder how if it was natural or artificial, seeing that she was a bestselling author, she clearly could afford it if it's the latter.
On the left side of the cottage, two wooden slings hung from the branches of a willow tree, swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze. Already I could tell that this would be my favorite place in the house.
Past the wooden fence was more woods, I didn't know how to feel about that especially after hearing about the rabid wolf. Before I ask, Helen beat me to it,
"Um, Sarah, you have a wonderful place here. It's cozy. It's peaceful and perfect for an author, but…" she spread out her arms gesturing to the surrounding woods, " doesn't this disturb you with the wolves and all?"
" Oh, that" Sarah began, " let's just say, me and the creatures have an understanding. I have lived here with your mom" she gestured to me, "since we lost our parents and not once have the woods ever felt like a danger to us. So don't worry."
I wanted to believe her, but then I heard barks, whistles and shouts of men. It was then that I realized that this place that could be my home was not just surrounded by any woods… this was the dreaded Fairwoods.