My Songbird's Dream

2. Echoes of Occupation

Etta Osi Walker -
November, 1944 : Liuzhou

My hands twitched, and my eyelids peeled back, sticky. My heartbeat raced against my ribs, faster than a jazzman's fugue, yet even more painful than the slap of shoes in back alley shortcuts home.

With one gasp, I found myself frantically scanning the unfamiliar quilts and wood grain. "Daniel?! Daniel?!" I heard myself rasp, terrified, through the last clutches of sleep.

Scrambling up desperately, I smelled the aromas of yesterday's small mercy meal, emerging real from a humble kitchen just one doorway over. Roasted sweet potato, turmeric chicken broth, salvation still simmering...

"Here, Eomma!" Daniel's little voice piped up, cheerier than I deserved, from the worn table, with radio static burbling useless weather forecasts that seemed worlds away from our impermanent sanctuary.

"Hey, hey it's okay.." Yura stated as she dropped her potato peelings and rushed over, clasping my shoulders firmly as I shook. Her voice washed over me, calm and sure as northern windchimes.

"Just breathe slow now... It's still early. You both ought to rest more."

I slumped heavily, nodding a mute apology for acting like a haunted fool when reasonable thoughts returned, stick by stick. My eager arms circled around Daniel, pressing us heart to heart. Finally, I exhaled, fully recalling the windfall blessing we had found in this refuge.

"I'm sorry, I just..." My words stalled, useless, as I raked back my fingers through curl wisps of hair. Yura, having seen too much hardship herself, refused to accept apologies for a mother buckling under burdens that could break even the strongest soldiers.

She shook her head, adamant. "It's alright... anyone might shatter after the evil you two have survived."

Yura announced that hot bathwater was waiting for me whenever I was ready. Just the words alone kindled long-lost muscles and ease within me. I managed a nod before moving ghostly to wash off the leftover ash and anguish for a while.

Sinking into the porcelain tub's damp heat felt like a far memory suddenly within reach again. Gentle floral aromas transported my psyche back from the harsh officer's cruel tobacco the night prior. My raw fingertips felt frail from blissful hours spent relearning equilibrium beneath the calm surface.

When I glanced outside at the broken winter light, there was Yura, hanging plain laundry beside a chuckling Daniel, who looked so at peace. I watched her sweep my boy easily up into a twirling embrace, eliciting more carefree giggles. Guilt twisted wistful and bitter inside me, which I could, I had ability to be providing only his smiles right now.

With a sigh, I returned my gaze to the tub, the lukewarm water rising just shy of my tangled dark tufts, in damp surrender against the porcelain. My pulse steadied as Yura's aged lavender soap lifted days' worth of sweat and heartache down the drain, if only symbolically.

My fingertips, porridge soft, and now pruned remained while steam sculpted mist on my cheekbones and collarbones. I looked to my hands, free from the haphazard bandages I'd finally removed.

The occasional plinks of condensation echoing off smooth tile managed a sweeter symphony to my ears in the makeshift clawfoot oasis of stillness.

After some silence, I began wrapping soapy arms around my knees, there was a rhythm playing in my head as soothing as a Harlem lullaby once hummed, however still and unmoving I appeared externally at first glance.

The Anglo missionaries always said cleanliness etched God closer to the soul. I simply needed one grounding moment, flesh first before spiritual wars began again, I scoffed to myself.