New Beginnings

• Jumaana Abdu, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2014

Something about the air smelt foreign; maybe the smoke from the chimney, maybe the smell of rain. Whatever it was, it only added to the encroaching sense of alienation surrounding me. This wasn’t right.
“Ames,” Jake called, snapping me back into reality. My eyes found him amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces. He gave a small concerned smile, the only warm thing in the room. Growing up with no brothers or sisters, Jake had been like family. He was the only one who knew me better than myself. But that day, there was something wiser about those honey-coloured eyes than I remembered.
It took me a moment to realise he was holding out his hand for me. I brushed him away, knowing that if I accepted one more sympathetic gesture, I would probably start crying. The strange thing was, I hadn’t cried. Not since…it happened. I couldn’t. Because crying meant grieving, and grieving meant accepting and I just wasn’t ready for that yet.
A small crease stained Jakes forehead as he took in my expression. He glanced around, as if deciding something, chestnut hair swinging into his eyes.
“Come on,” he whispered, leaning close. “You don’t need this.” And like shadows, we slipped out of the crowded room, leaving the fireplace and the smell of rain and the sympathy behind.
We crept out the back door. The grey blue hue of the sky was soothing compared to the harsh amber glow inside. I barely noticed the rain, I was that numb. But Jake, who always had a presence of mind, had brought an umbrella.
I blindly followed Jake out to the corner of the backyard. I only thought to question his motives when he started digging a hole in the ground with his hands. Like always, he knew what I was going to say and assure me that eventually it would make sense.
I trusted Jake. How could I not? He just embodied the word innocence; those guge eyes that you could drown all your worries in, that hearty chuckle that made you feel warm. I couldn’t imagine a better man, because that’s what he was; a man.
Jake padded off back inside. Within a few seconds he was back, carrying a small box in his hand, a pen and paper. I frowned at him; he did the strangest things sometimes.
“Here,” he handed me the pen and paper. “Write something – anything – down. Something you want them to be remembered by.”
Still not fully understanding, I did what I was told. ‘Love, hope and mine,’ I wrote. He took the paper, a small knowing smile playing at his lips.
He placed the little paper in the box and rested the box gently in the hole.
“To what was ours, to what was lost…and to new beginnings,” he said softly covering the box with soil. To new beginnings, I thought. And then I cried.