Under The Same Blue Sky

The task given by the teacher dispersed my mood of laziness, which, in some way, is embedded in my nature. So, I have to write, and more importantly, to think. It has been a long time since I picked up my pen to write and to think with numerous stars blinking their eyes at me. Writing, long ago, was by no means a hard thing for me since I once enjoyed it so much that even my dream, my feelings and my life can only be realized by the ink flowed out from my pen at that time. Those writing days are moving, exciting and glorious part of my life.
That fantastic time began with my sentimental love for a girl in high school. That girl lifted the strobe of my feelings which flowed out from my pen, so clear and clean, that even many years later I still could recall my first poem without a pause, like watching an old movie, real though vague.
The love has been washed away by the river of time, but the feelings, is still there the moment I read this poem. I still can feel the innocent love of that boy, which sometimes console my heart and my soul, and encourage me to purify my feelings when I got hurt. If you have the experience of watching an old movie that once moved your tears out and still could touch you many years later, you will understand my feelings.
When I watched the shining stars in the dark sky, the idea comes to me that each of us once was born so pure, just like that star, shining out the innocent hope for the world. However, we grew up and matured with the day replaced by the night, the sun giving way to the moon. We came to know that besides the word “joy” there is also one called “sad”. We were struggling to stay the warmth of the sun, to evade the coldness of the night, only to find out inability and insignificance before this world. The spring never stays longer and the winter never comes later. We, finally, find that we are deserted on a place called earth, lonely and hopelessly. Have you ever thought why a child is afraid of darkness and why a man in agony always murmur a word “Mum”? We are weak, not strong in nature. We feel cold and afraid in this planet, and so we turn our telescope into the space, not only to search out, but also to search in.
We are born with many dreams and hopes, which, however, in some way are too heavy for us to continue our journey. We, therefor, have to abandon many, carry few. Nevertheless, even these few are not easy for us to realize. Some will succeed, but most will fail. Paradoxically, the joy brought by the success for which we are willing to sacrifice a lot is always ephemeral. We sacrifice a lot, but get a little. More often we will find the things we give up are more important than the goal we pursue. Is a meeting more important than the birthday of your wife, or a contract more emergent than your mother’s longing heart? To live a sober and full life, these things are worth our thinking.
Thank God, once again I can sit down to write and, more importantly, to think. I guess what I am writing here is neither an academic essay nor a research paper which may be preferred by my professor. However, since I have to write, I want write something valuable, if not valuable, at least real. Maybe I do not know the world, but I do know my heart. I know if I can choose, I would rather be an eagle circling lonely in the sky than to be a sparrow flying aimlessly in the crowd.

When Bill was very young, they had been in love. Many nights they had spent walking, talking together. Then something not very important had come between them, and they didn’t speak. Impulsively, she had married a man she thought she loved. Bill went away, bitter about women.

Yesterday, walking across Washington Square, she saw him for the first time in years.

“Bill Walker,” she said.
He stopped. At first he did not recognize her, to him she looked so old.
“Mary! Where did you come from?”
Unconsciously, she lifted her face as though wanting a kiss, but he held out his hand. She took it.
“I live in New York now,” she said.
“Oh” — smiling politely. Then a little frown came quickly between his eyes.
“Always wondered what happened to you, Bill.”
“I’m a lawyer. Nice firm, way downtown.”
“Married yet?”
“Sure. Two kids.”
“Oh,” she said.

A great many people went past them through the park. People they didn’t know. It was late afternoon. Nearly sunset. Cold.

“And your husband?” he asked her.
“We have three children. I work in the bursar’s office at Columbia.”
“You’re looking very . . .” (he wanted to say old) “. . . well,” he said.

She understood. Under the trees in Washington Square, she found herself desperately reaching back into the past. She had been older than he then in Ohio. Now she was not young at all. Bill was still young.

“We live on Central Park West,” she said. “Come and see us sometime.”
“Sure,” he replied. “You and your husband must have dinner with my family some night. Any night. Lucille and I’d love to have you.”

The leaves fell slowly from the trees in the Square. Fell without wind. Autumn dusk. She felt a little sick.

“We’d love it,” she answered.
“You ought to see my kids.” He grinned.

Suddenly the lights came on up the whole length of Fifth Avenue, chains of misty brilliance in the blue air.

“There’s my bus,” she said.
He held out his hand. “Good-bye.”
“When . . .” she wanted to say, but the bus was ready to pull off. The lights on the avenue blurred, twinkled, blurred. And she was afraid to open her mouth as she entered the bus. Afraid it would be impossible to utter a word.

Suddenly she shrieked very loudly. “Good-bye!” But the bus door had closed.

The bus started. People came between them outside, people crossing the street, people they didn’t know. Space and people. She lost sight of Bill. Then she remembered she had forgotten to give him her address — or to ask him for his — or tell him that her youngest boy was named Bill too.

My day began on a decidedly sour note when I saw my six-year-old wrestling with a limb of my azalea bush. By the time I got outside, he’d broken it. “Can I take this to school today?” he asked. With a wave of my hand, I sent him off. I turned my back so he wouldn’t see the tears gathering in my eyes. I loved that azalea bush. I touched the broken limb as if to say silently, “I’m sorry.”

I wished I could have said that to my husband earlier, but I’d been angry. The washing machine had leaked on my brand-new linoleum. If he’d just taken the time to fix it the night before when I asked him instead of playing checkers with Jonathan. What are his priorities anyway? I wondered. I was still mopping up the mess when Jonathan walked into the kitchen. “What’s for breakfast, Mom?” I opened the empty refrigerator. “Not cereal,” I said, watching the sides of his mouth drop. “How about toast and jelly?” I smeared the toast with jelly and set it in front of him. Why was I so angry? I tossed my husband’s dishes into the sudsy water.

It was days like this that made me want to quit. I just wanted to drive up to the mountains, hide in a cave, and never come out.

Somehow I managed to lug the wet clothes to the laundromat. I spent most of the day washing and drying clothes and thinking how love had disappeared from my life. Staring at the graffiti on the walls, I felt as wrung-out as the clothes left in the washers.

As I finished hanging up the last of my husband’s shirts, I looked at the clock. 2:30. I was late. Jonathan’s class let out at 2:15. I dumped the clothes in the back seat and hurriedly drove to the school.

I was out of breath by the time I knocked on the teacher’s door and peered through the glass. With one finger, she motioned for me to wait. She said something to Jonathan and handed him and two other children crayons and a sheet of paper.

What now? I thought, as she rustled through the door and took me aside. “I want to talk to you about Jonathan,” she said.

I prepared myself for the worst. Nothing would have surprised me. “Did you know Jonathan brought flowers to school today?” she asked. I nodded, thinking about my favorite bush and trying to hide the hurt in my eyes. I glanced at my son busily coloring a picture. His wavy hair was too long and flopped just beneath his brow. He brushed it away with the back of his hand. His eyes burst with blue as he admired his handiwork. “Let me tell you about yesterday,” the teacher insisted. “See that little girl?” I watched the bright-eyed child laugh and point to a colorful picture taped to the wall. I nodded.

“Well, yesterday she was almost hysterical. Her mother and father are going through a nasty divorce. She told me she didn’t want to live, she wished she could die. I watched that little girl bury her face in her hands and say loud enough for the class to hear, ‘Nobody loves me.’ I did all I could to console her, but it only seemed to make matters worse.” “I thought you wanted to talk to me about Jonathan,” I said.

“I do,” she said, touching the sleeve of my blouse. “Today your son walked straight over to that child. I watched him hand her some pretty pink flowers and whisper, ‘I love you.’”

I felt my heart swell with pride for what my son had done. I smiled at the teacher. “Thank you,” I said, reaching for Jonathan’s hand, “you’ve made my day.”

Later that evening, I began pulling weeds from around my lopsided azalea bush. As my mind wandered back to the love Jonathan showed the little girl, a biblical verse came to me: “…these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” While my son had put love into practice, I had only felt anger.

I heard the familiar squeak of my husband’s brakes as he pulled into the drive. I snapped a small limb bristling with hot pink azaleas off the bush. I felt the seed of love that God planted in my family beginning to bloom once again in me. My husband’s eyes widened in surprise as I handed him the flowers. “I love you,” I said.