by Fiona Clements

Created on: March 19, 2009   Last Updated: October 16, 2010

She interrupted him from a conversation with an unsuspecting audience where he always held the show with his well rehearsed war stories. "Hi bro, could I have a minute." and asked him to go with her into the garden. Parlez as they say. She took him, protesting as usual, to the shrine. It was a corner seat at the far end of the walled garden. Both had been spoon-fed family history since early childhood. They had been raised with a strong moral and religious wooden spoon. All the time rebelling from the status quo the two had grown up united in this one fact ...grown-ups were juvenile.

As they sat down, she started to talk, gathering her strength from the young maple sapling nearby. "They're both on the other side now, and looking out for each other. I am sure of it. There's a lot of us over there now and nothing we can do about it. New kids on the block, stars of the show, for certain." He stared blankly at her through the haze of grief, the fog around his mind attempting, yet failing, to protect him from the hard reality of his loss. She gathered her thoughts carefully "I am not going if you don't invite them too." A threat she knew she wouldn't follow through. "We both know the family's being held together by a thin piece of thread." He nodded absently. It suddenly occurred to her that they were both like puppets on a string, sitting there in the comfort of "memorial park" acting out a predestined script, yet dancing to a newly composed tune, extras in the movie of life, novices in the cloisters of existence, taken for a ride in the donkey cart of their childhood. She turned her head to look at him for the first time since they had sat down. There were tears streaming down his face. She had her answer and sighed with relief. He had always been the 'little man'

in their house, the strong one, the protector. She took out her note book and wrote; "A greater journey hath no man undertaken than to set free his inner child."

After that they went their separate ways to recover their respective dignities. Neither of them had anybody to turn to at that moment. So they moved on and away containing the pain. The day was hot and sunny. So she decided to join a large group of people who were sitting around what was going to be a bonfire later that evening. This action amplified the emotion. She felt almost autistic. She was there in body but wandered back into a world of her own. Instead of trying to control around her, she took up her pen and wrote. "Still out, still in, it doesn't matter where I am or what I do, the pull is too weak to draw me away from my inner suffering. "A hand rested gently on her shoulder. It was Mani, her friend from London. She thought about the irony of such a gentle gesture which could cause so much damage. Because at that moment her defenses crumbled. The suit of armor she had gone to so much trouble forging and shaping to protect the fragments of her broken heart began to form cracks and leaks. The warmth of the love flowing through Mani's arm penetrated from her shoulder and spread through her body rendering her a shivering, nervous, wreck. "Hi, sweetheart", he innocently and unknowingly remarked.

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