By Grace Chua (Grade 11)
A gentle breeze runs through my hair as I sit on the soft grass. The leaves fall in the distance while I stare out into an auburn sunset slowly fading away. Such a delicate image is it not? Soft like a mother’s touch. It’s like watching a flower bloom in spring or seeing the first bit of snow in November, such a familiar feeling yet not appreciated enough.
Ethereal –a word full of grace and beauty, yet it does not mean perfect. It paints an image of a woman in a white dress with petals in her hair, dancing in the middle of a rainy forest with just a touch of dirt on her skin, bringing out her imperfections yet not quite enough that it makes her look impure. If you look close enough, perhaps you can catch a glimpse of her smile breaking away. Perhaps you may even see that the droplets on her face have come from her eyes, and not the sky.
Her calloused hands sway elegantly against the wind. Her fingernails are uneven, with some cut too short that you can almost see a hint of red prickling out. Yet as the day darkens, she keeps her rhythm, dancing ever gracefully like a barefoot ballerina, uncaring of the mud at her feet. How can a person look so flawed, yet so heavenly?
The closer you look, the more you see. Much like art, except she is a canvas painted in her own blood, sweat and tears. Her chest starts heaving, and her momentum grows aggressive, expressing all her emotions in ways that words can’t. Her body is screaming, unleashing an anger in a way profanity could never quite convey. What once was a drizzle is now a storm, and her screams roar like thunder.
But like every tempest, this too passes. The birds are singing once again, and on the horizon peeks a tiny speck of light. On what once was mud now sprouts a tiny bud of a rose; and she sits next to it, gently running her fingers on its petals as if it were a shard of glass, ever so fragile. The welcoming breeze arrives once again, bringing the leaves back to life as she stares out into the golden sunrise of spring. Her skin is warm, and her heart is full. The flower by her hand blooms for the first time.
Graphics by Justin Wingkee (Grade 10 – Luna)