Metaphors of Dawn

The world seemed to slowly awaken with the dawn.

The first light of the sun on the horizon fell with romantic affection across her Grandmothers garden, shining its feverish warmth between the bodies of florae and shrubberies. Autumn leaves fluttered from the broadly spreading crowns of Japanese maple trees, creating a carpet of red foliage below. A single golden leaf danced in the breeze before settling delicately on the fishponds surface, casting ripples above the bodies of Koi’s.

Nabi waited until the burgeoning dawn was enough to see by. Once the sun had made a pinhole on the horizon, she began setting up her painting nook in the centre of the garden. She loved painting in the early hours of morning. The world always looked different somehow. The sunlight—one billion years old—spread its energy across the earth: awakening the sleepers with possibility and brimming the world with colour and movement. The darkness of night shrunk fearfully away at its warmth. Minute by minute the sun painted a world of light before her sleepy eyes.

Most days Nabi kept her hair neatly assembled in a brown braid down the slope of her back. Today was different. Today, for the first time in over a year, she let her hair down—free to roam whether the lustrous wind blew.

Nabi sighed, shifted on her stool, and raised the brush precariously to the canvas. A bouquet of flowers was arranged on a small stone coffee table before her. She studied each flower— orange osmanthus, marigolds, and viola’s—and noticed something harum-scarum about them. It was like each flower was wildly reaching out, stretching their leaves and petals to meet the sun. The great depth and layers of their folds fell into a chasm of autumn colours. Some lustre, some riches of the Ikebana attracted the bees and the butterflies.

Normally the sight of their warm colours, and blooming petals would fill Nabi with a soft peace and happiness. Today she felt nothing but a pit of lamentation in her heart. The heavy draperies of grief had closed upon her. Marigolds had been her Grandmother’s favourite flowers.

A voice coaxed her attention. The flicker of matches lit up the narrator’s face, catching the folds in his cheeks. ‘You’re up early Nabi—’ her grandfather spoke through suckles of his newly packaged cigars. The smoke drifted between them before being swept away by the morning breeze. ‘—as early as the butterflies.’

Nabi smiled softly at the inside joke. Her grandfather often compared her to a butterfly, it was her name sake Afterall. It was her grandma that had named her Nabi—a name she had stumbled upon during her apprenticeship in Korea that meant Butterfly. It was her grandparents that had raised her and taught her everything she knew. To Nabi they were the most precious people. ‘Grandpa, you shouldn’t smoke. It is bad for your health.’

‘I am not smoking’, he chuckled ‘I am merely breathing.’ He accentuated his answer with another grey cloud, the tendrils curling around his mouth in wisps. For a moment silence lingered between them. Nothing but the gentle humdrum of the garden could be heard. Haru—their cat—mewled before nestling lazily into the crook of an old garden ornament. The birds sung merrily to each other, Nabi detected an izu thrush and sparrow among their ensemble. A fish splashed playfully in the bubbling pond and the breeze danced teasingly through her hair.

‘It’s the final day,’ her Grandfather sighed mournfully. Nabi paused mid brushstroke. It was the 49th day since her grandmother’s passing. For cultures like her family, the 49th day after death was believed to be the day the spirit leaves earth and ascends to heaven. During the seven weeks after death it was believed that the souls of the dead alternate between the after world and this world. If the stories were true, then today would be the last day her grandmothers’ spirit would linger on earth before leaving the mortal plane forever.

The thought made her emotions turbulent. She couldn’t express with words the feelings in her body—express the emptiness there, the hollowness, the loss. Her grandma has been such a precious person to her. She had been like a kindred spirit for Nabi, a guardian angel that was always warm and comforting. She was someone Nabi could always confide in and whine to.

Sitting among her garden, flooded her mind with recollections of the past. She could imagine her grandmother gardening under the large pear tree, back turned to the pair as her gloved hands patted the unturned earth around budding new seeds. Now and then her face would turn skywards, and a slow smile would spread upon her face. No matter what hardships the family would be facing her Grandmas was always capable of being very still and present, as if she was soaking in the world’s beauty with a sense of awe and fascination. Nabi remembered often seeing her grandma like this—smiling secretly to herself in the afternoon glow, a wafer of light adorning her hair, turning it into a vibrant fiery radiance, her knitted sweaters all muddied from the earth.

….

Nabi and grandpa spent the day doing all of grandma’s favourite things. They made apple cake dusted with cinnamon and honey, they planted baby marigolds along the pond, and they fed seeds to the neighbouring birds. They also sat still like grandma, meditatively watching, and listening and feeling as the world moved by.

….

As dawn shifted to afternoon, Nabi picked up her paintbrush once again and continued to paint. This time grandpa did not speak but blew softly into the daegeum—a large, bamboo, transverse flute, dancing across the melody of folk music. He played Metaphors of Dawn which had been one of Grandma’s favourite songs to sing to her as a child—an ancient lullaby that had been passed down through generations of their family lineage.

Grandma had a soulful, expressive voice that reminded Nabi of the earth. If she were still here, she would have leaned back in the rocking chair, closed her large brown eyes, and sang the words. Over the flute grandma’s voice came to her distantly, as if it were a voice echoing throughout a lone cathedral.

In the endless night, winter takes her fill.

The days snow shall linger still.

Little Dove, little Dove, there is no need to fear.

Like a fallen angel you can lye here my dear.

With dawn the sun will form and wash the tides.

Take away our despair and fill us with light.

In dreams you are free from Hells, cruel kiss.

Like the winged souls escape in heavenly bliss.

Close your eyes and you’ll be there.

A patch of heaven with no worries or care.

Little Dove, little Dove, there is no need to fear.

Like a fallen angel you can lye here my dear.

With the dawn the sun will form and wash away the tides.

With the dawn the sun will form and wash away the tides.

The painting was coming together. The flowers all curves and shadows were completed by arabesques and flourishes of the artist’s brush. She felt a hand against her shoulder, fingers outspread like the roots of trees. Her grandfather stood behind her, admiring the fine details of her work from up close.

“Do you know why your grandmother loved marigold’s?” his voice seemed far away as if his thoughts lingered in the distant past. “Marigolds have a special meaning. The golden petals are said to symbolise the warmth of the rising sun. They embody hope, optimism and the light that lives on inside us,” he patted his breast pocket where his heart beat beneath. “Your Grandmother was that for me. No matter how cold the wind blew, nor how hard it rained she would always carry with her the warmth of the sun.”

Nabi smiled wistfully. She remembered hearing about her grandmother’s past and the terrible hardships she had been through. It had shocked Nabi. Never had she imagined that behind the happiest of smiles hid a past so sad. And yet still those storms had not hindered her compassion nor warmth. Hearing her tale had only strengthened her admiration for her Grandma.

The sound of chimes broke her from her reverie. A breeze had picked up filtering through the wind chimes—suspended wooden tubes, rods, and bells—that decorated the overhung roofs of her grandparents Minka. Snow-viewing lanterns stood on three or four legs next to the pond. The big umbrella shapes were perfect to catch the falling snow, presenting them as soft white hats to any wondering eye. Rankei lanterns too lined the garden, their fireboxes were placed on an overhanging pillar and placed over a pond. The warmth of the lanterns made the garden look cosy and filled with light. A stone curved bridge nestled over the pond, casting a crescent shaped shadow over the koi’s.

The sun had began to sink low on the horizon. The clouds had parted in the west revealing a pink and golden sky. The upper lim of the sun had turned a fiery orange, its light painting the world with vivid vitality. For a moment Nabi swore she saw a shadow standing among her Grandmothers flowers. The silhouette of a woman, hair flowing silently in the wind. Nabi felt like they were not alone. A feeling of comfort flowed warmly through her as if familiar hands had squeezed her own—one, two, three…just like Grandma had always done. A sense of loveliness, peace and stillness shaped the evening air.

“I will miss you Grandma,” Nabi whispered secretly to the breeze and smiled. Through the last rays of sun, she could swear she saw her Grandma smiling back at her.