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 Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
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Enga mellom Fjella  Sentinel Marked as if you own me I bow before the Bitterroots and just like you my rocky soil, my withered grass lays prey to the empty sky. © Kåre Enga 2007 "Sentinel"   Reader's Choice of Poems: "Zmitri" "Where grows the compost heap" "Waterlily" "La Bella Vita" "Mauve Mavis" Reader's Choice of blog entries from my old blog "L'aura del Campo" :"Death of Jeannie New Moon" "Winter: 18 Mas'il (December 29)" "Even in chaos ... More hockey poems." "Footprints in the snow, in memory of Nyia Page" "Wheat penny. Gave in, started a forum." FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
The big wave hit and Ander's family died. The stars went out and his inner compass went astray. Everyone lied to him that he'd find his way. Not today. Some day. He's waiting for that day. Monday morning he dressed in yellow to appease the ancestors gathered at the shrine. He bought two bouquets of orchids to place by his sister's ashes. His brother had been lost and his body never found. He felt bound by customs not-his-own. Yellow marigolds and blue sky, like the flag of Sweden had greeted the morning. Just another day in Phuket. They'd died. He'd never left. He'd been in Hua Hin that day on business. His two younger siblings had come to visit but wanted a day of fun and sun and left the city to seek the sand. It wasn't the sun and sand that killed them. 20 years... Every Monday he dressed in yellow in remembrance, donned a suit the other days, grey with his favorite pink shirt tomorrow. The old Thais respected his sorrow. His coworkers were used to his quirks and locals who knew his story understood that he still carried his grief in his briefcase. They gently advised him to set it down and walk away. But, no matter how many times he tried to flee his memories waited patiently for him to return. He rarely spoke Swedish. English and Mandarin were the language of trade and commerce. Anders was fluent in both. At home he spoke Thai, taking comfort in the daily kao pad the maid prepared while her children added laughter. Gung always differed to him as master of the house. He knew she was the master of the kitchen. On the 17th of May she always made meatballs for his husband. Damn Norwegian. He smiled at that. Erik always made him smile. His mother was Lao from a small village near Khon Kaen, his father a refugee from a frigid island off the coast of Narvik. Erik had used his good looks and rice-field charm to trap him. Anders didn't mind. Not at all. To him, this three bedroom house was his in name only. Erik was his home. Oh, he made more money but without Erik there was no home. Today — he laid more offerings by the tsunami monument. More flowers, tied with yellow and blue ribbons — a token remembrance. That day — Erik had held him — and every day since. Those who said Norwegians were cold and distant had never been hugged by Erik. Erik had trimmed the jasmine, brought in a few flowers to float in a bowl of water. Their fragrance fill the room as he placed one yellow rose by Ander's place at the table. Last week he'd bought a red one, but today was special. Tonight he'd take his lover to see the stars. Max and Bank helped while Gung nodded. The children were so polite, so full of joy; albeit, a bit mischievous. Even Anders had melted. Erik could provide enough love for the two of them but Erik had insisted that they rent a larger place so they could all live together. Gung's family was pleased with the arrangement. No one dared bother her with Anders as guardian, and the children adored Erik. Yes, the family knew about the two gentlemen but no one cared except for Mes, the older brother — who was jealous. He favored Anders but Erik said no to a threesome. Two was enough. More than enough. Would the stars be enough? Outside the city the dark night awaited. The moon was spent and in hiding. The skies weren't the same as in Upsala, Anders had once stated. Tonight they'd consult the skies together; and, perhaps, Anders could finally find his way back to himself after being lost these 20 long years. ... Sultry nights, one after the other, had staked their claim on Anders; but, tonight the stars would tell another story. Or... so Erik hoped. He looked up, The Cross in the southern sky was beckoning. He'd driven driven towards the mountains, no need to go far to escape the city lights. He'd thought about hiring a boat to go out to sea, far from the city's shore; but, Anders still didn't trust water. 20 years... They were middle-aged and not so slim. Anders was getting grey by the temples. More than 20 years together... They'd gotten married as soon as the courts and His Highness gave the blessing. Thousands had planned extravaganzas of silk, satin and lace. They'd kept it simple. Anders had no one but Erik after Carl and Kirsten's deaths had left him bereft. Their parents pined away soon after. Anders never called his cousins. Just Gung and Erik's mother were there to hear their vows. Max had blown up balloons and Bank had bought six cupcakes. Would the stars speak tonight? They stopped at a 7/11 to quench their thirst. Erik bought a strawberry milk for his husband, an iced coffee for himself. He planned on staying awake. They sat in chairs they'd brought, silent hand-in-hand. "I'm okay, you know." "Yes, I know." "I'm not unhappy." In the stillness, the fragrance of jasmine surrounded them until the stars broke their silence. © Kåre Enga (31.juli.2025) 875 words 67.688 |
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