Family Reunion - 1647

John skims through the letter with his large, blue grey eyes one last time as creases form along the page under the cusp of his fingertips. He falters over a particular line and runs it aloud ‘…I really hope you’ll come. Think of it as a family reunion, you always seemed to love those’. His sister’s words dangle in the air, waiting, hoping for his acceptance, something he is reluctant to permit. Scrunching up the letter he tosses it onto the empty passenger seat beside him and the car idles patiently waiting for its masters commands.

Why should I go he thinks to himself? It’s not like Calvin is going to be there…the lucky bastard. He’s off God knows where, probably in some hellhole doing what he did best. The thought sickens him as a gush of shame fills his body from the gut out. He looks to the crumpled up letter as if it gives him strength again. Can we even call it a family reunion if the most crucial member is absent? Don’t we just become a group of people with shared memories and a common history? Rachael must be desperate to believe we’re a family without the indomitable Calvin.

John thinks of his older sister with her sombre, dark hair slightly lifted above her shoulders. The way her petite stature never hinders her ability to give the greatest hugs. Once upon a time she was his saving grace the angel to Calvin’s devil. Many times where Calvin was cruel, and mother and father refused to believe his so called fables, Rachael was there to comfort him. Even after Calvin had abandoned them she was there, for a time. John looks to the discarded letter once more but it no longer contains his strength it only fuels his guilt. No doubt their parents put Racheal up to the letter as a means of baiting him into their attempt at reconciliation. Then again he loved Rachael very much and the thought did not come without its own guilt, she may truly want him there.

As John turned off the car an exaggerated sigh escaped him as if to prove his own frustration. Stepping out of the car the mildly brisk autumn air brought a somewhat familiar feeling. A childhood was raised on these streets and not just a childhood a home once stood among the rest. John thought as long as somebody lives in a house it would always be a home. It was a pleasant thought and he believed none of it. What had a home given him? A sister with a pure heart, a brother with a cruel twist and parents that saw neither.

The cracked driveway sits patiently waiting for the millennia to pass so it can swallow John whole never to be seen again. Time will not give it the satisfaction. The going is steep but not as steep as he remembers. An ache shoots to his bad knee and he recalls a time when this hill felt mountainous, an obstacle to overcome, now it is a nuisance, something to endure. A solitary snail completes its pilgrimage across the freshly damp driveway, striving for some new start beyond its once arid path. In its horizon a grassy plain of infinite desire and adventure but for John nothing more than an old patch of green and brown that gave birth to many childhood ventures.

How many countless hours did John spend with the kids from next door, playing games and having fun on that plot of land? Back then even Calvin was innocent but how long did it take for that gorgeous cheeky grin to turn devilish. It’s hard to see through the smoke of time for at one glance the haze is milky white and a young boy’s hero. Another gaze is dense, smothering and a child full of rage. You never witness the change it just forces itself upon you bloody and reeling.

For a moment John could almost smell his mother’s famous Lemon cake springing to life from the oven. It’s one of the few memories of her that he looks upon fondly, well maybe more the cake. Despite Calvin always acquiring the first slice John always savoured his morsel of sweet lemony tang and soft, fluffy texture. Not too long after Calvin left his mother attempted baking her only remaining pride and joy. The result was a sour, dry and brittle disappointment not unlike herself in those days. She never made it again.

John began to move back up the driveway favouring his bad knee with a little less weight. He had become accustomed to the constant dull ache that so gracefully reminds him of the day his brother left. On the nature strip atop the driveway is an area of freshly churned up dark, thick and brooding soil. An insult to memory for where a mound of earth now sits was once a large, magnificent gumtree full of life, presence and history. The lacking familiar view of crooked branches home to old bike tyres that he and Calvin had so gleefully placed there evokes not quite sadness in John but more of a disappointed lull that slowly fades out of memory. All that remains to prove its existence is the corroded section of earth where the postman manoeuvres past to get to the letter box.

John’s father had built the ancient letter box when John was still a child. Broad and strong it lingers in his past but today it appears disgraceful and husk of its former self. His father is almost wombat-like in appearance and a very handy man. He made his living building things using; wood, metal, earth, dreams, you name it and the man could form it with his two lumbering mitts. But his understanding of things never went far beyond the physical realm. When John explained to his father that he wanted to be a writer he could not comprehend what that entailed. John tried to show how he was following in his father’s footsteps by also crafting things with his hands and his imagination but all he received was a series of disapproving grunts. John could not see why his father cared, Calvin had already taken up their father’s profession and what a perfect son he is. John saw his father in that sturdy and stubborn letter box. It had large chunks of pale cream wood rotted away in the decades of weather and a broken latch succeeded by John’s fathers strategically placed occy straps. The letter box has no perception of the disappointment it has become only endearing to serve its one true purpose of accepting letters and parcels that no longer bear John’s name. He returns to his car and leaves what once was home behind.

A clearing on the side of the road presents itself and a small congregation crowds around a large gumtree which made the one from John’s past seem insignificant in comparison. The tree was a monstrosity of nature that smothered the spectators below in its enormous blanket of shade. John steps out of the car and the ache returns to his knee accompanied by an image of twisted metal and blood. He pushes it aside, now is not the time for self-pity, now is the time for appearing composed.

Rachael greeted him first the same way she always did with her skinny arms and a small frame trying their hardest to encompass him.
‘I knew you’d come, never had any doubt.’ Said Rachael.
Her sombre hair was now a light chestnut and fell well beyond her shoulders that impossibly made her seem happier. She led John to their parents huddled under the imposing tree. Their mother was weeping softly as their father held her close. He had never seen the man grant so much sympathy in a public setting not even when Calvin left.

A woman older than he remembered turned and embraced him heartily. ‘We missed you so much honey.’ Said his mother.
Did she always care this much? Or was this the prize of absence? John savoured the moment more than he thought he would allow himself as he held her as any loving son would. He could feel her warm tears trickle down his neck and slowly disappear. When his mother finally released him a gleeful glow, glorious in every aspect adorned her face leaving him with an almost whole sensation.

John extended a hand to his father as he knew he liked to measure a man by the strength of his grip. John was utterly taken aback by the unnerving calmness of the embrace. He had known his father to be a man of stature and presence but now all he saw was a man defeated. Not in a bad way but the kind of defeat you learn from and grow.
‘I saw that piece you did in that writer’s magazine, the one about the young boy and his father…it was beautiful.’ Said his father.
John had no response prepared as he had never imagined his father would take any sort of interest in his career let alone read a piece he’d written. John smiled and thanked him as best as he could without looking victorious but in reality he had no reason not to show it as he had just won his father.

John turns toward the mammoth tree but sees none of it as his family are flanked behind him in a protective shield as if nothing else matters.
‘You know he always thought the best of you.’ Said the mother.
He could feel the dampness on his cheeks rapidly gaining momentum as the words sink in. John looks to the base of the tree where half alive flowers surround a wrinkled and weathered photo of Calvin.
‘It’s ok son, we love you.’ Said the father.


THE END