I don't know how I'd define freedom. It's as exasperating and frustrating as trying to describe and comprehend a color you've never seen. I only have a tiny sliver of an idea of what freedom must be like. I might not have had that to hold on to, either, if it wasn't for him.
I was three when I saw them place burning logs of wood over my father. He was sleeping peacefully, in the open, in the chilly air. I recall inhaling sharply. He'll catch a cold. But the fire kept him warm. And engulfed him.
Two years later, he came along. For the first time since my father's death, I saw my mother laugh as freely as she did. The spark came back in her eyes. She started believing in happiness, in life, again.
The house seemed to light up when he was around. The tiles shimmered, the flames flickered and even the clocks plastered a plastic grin. His shoulders became our mode of transport and his lollipops our reward. I always bullied him, pulling his hair and giving him directions. Little did I know, that's exactly what he, was giving us.
Woodcraft. That was the magic he enchanted me with. He had a small workshop in the garden of his palatial mansion. My human senses were perhaps inadequate to completely take in the aura of magnificence around its interior. The walls were carved with fairytales. I saw trolls, bridges and I saw goblins. Mischevious pixies with pointed wings, rainbows with pots of gold. I saw giants and ogres, villages and cities devoured. I saw the smug pied piper of Hamlyn, leading the plague of rats to their musical doom.
And I saw fire. Indefinite shape. Undefined beauty.
His nimble fingers moved all over the wood, and he'd nonchalantly sit beside me on one knee, talking to me, while transforming that muddy stump into a gift for my birthday. I closed my hand over a miniature sculpture of a funny looking boy with a long nose. Pinocchio, from my favourite story. I looked up to the man, whose crinkly eyes stared back at me with good humor and fatherly love. I scrunched up my nose. "I still don't like you. You're not dad." The sawdust dancing around him froze in the air. The splinters embedded in his fingers suddenly started hurting. He simply smiled and let my comment pass.
The day he set my brother and I in the hall of his house. I ran squealing, my hair splayed out like a wildly flapping flag, senses clouded with the unbelievable liberty of losing control and ignoring rules and ettiquette. That's probably how I'll define freedom. With the sound of my quickenning thud of footsteps, flushed face, and erratic heartbeat.
Time flies. Two years became twenty. I look back to the lost man sitting all alone on that chair, gazing out the window with a dreamy smile. They call him a madman. Some thank the gods he's senile. They see him as senseless and useless. But each time I look at him, I see the man who loved me as his own when he was under no obligation to.
I gently wipe the dribble of boiled apples from his chin and laugh lightly. "I still don't love you, old man."
He reached out and playfully rested his finger on my nose.
Even when his nose didn't grow long, Geppetto could always tell when his Pinocchio was lying.
I was three when I saw them place burning logs of wood over my father. He was sleeping peacefully, in the open, in the chilly air. I recall inhaling sharply. He'll catch a cold. But the fire kept him warm. And engulfed him.
Two years later, he came along. For the first time since my father's death, I saw my mother laugh as freely as she did. The spark came back in her eyes. She started believing in happiness, in life, again.
The house seemed to light up when he was around. The tiles shimmered, the flames flickered and even the clocks plastered a plastic grin. His shoulders became our mode of transport and his lollipops our reward. I always bullied him, pulling his hair and giving him directions. Little did I know, that's exactly what he, was giving us.
Woodcraft. That was the magic he enchanted me with. He had a small workshop in the garden of his palatial mansion. My human senses were perhaps inadequate to completely take in the aura of magnificence around its interior. The walls were carved with fairytales. I saw trolls, bridges and I saw goblins. Mischevious pixies with pointed wings, rainbows with pots of gold. I saw giants and ogres, villages and cities devoured. I saw the smug pied piper of Hamlyn, leading the plague of rats to their musical doom.
And I saw fire. Indefinite shape. Undefined beauty.
His nimble fingers moved all over the wood, and he'd nonchalantly sit beside me on one knee, talking to me, while transforming that muddy stump into a gift for my birthday. I closed my hand over a miniature sculpture of a funny looking boy with a long nose. Pinocchio, from my favourite story. I looked up to the man, whose crinkly eyes stared back at me with good humor and fatherly love. I scrunched up my nose. "I still don't like you. You're not dad." The sawdust dancing around him froze in the air. The splinters embedded in his fingers suddenly started hurting. He simply smiled and let my comment pass.
The day he set my brother and I in the hall of his house. I ran squealing, my hair splayed out like a wildly flapping flag, senses clouded with the unbelievable liberty of losing control and ignoring rules and ettiquette. That's probably how I'll define freedom. With the sound of my quickenning thud of footsteps, flushed face, and erratic heartbeat.
Time flies. Two years became twenty. I look back to the lost man sitting all alone on that chair, gazing out the window with a dreamy smile. They call him a madman. Some thank the gods he's senile. They see him as senseless and useless. But each time I look at him, I see the man who loved me as his own when he was under no obligation to.
I gently wipe the dribble of boiled apples from his chin and laugh lightly. "I still don't love you, old man."
He reached out and playfully rested his finger on my nose.
Even when his nose didn't grow long, Geppetto could always tell when his Pinocchio was lying.
