Love beyond the grave

SOMEHOW, something about my grandmother’s story felt like a fairy tale. One of those love stories that made you feel all mushy, yet sad inside. One that gives you a picturesque view of the situation, yet somehow makes it feel dream-like, quite unreal.

The community rallied around and buried her, mostly out of sympathy, then compassion. But the tale of Miss Ida was, in my mind, nothing short of a Bonnie and Clyde life with a bit of a twist.

I recall how the children in the neighbourhood mocked her on a daily basis. They called her a mad woman, and hurled stones in her direction when elders were not looking. She had made her home right under the yellow poui tree and she never left. The scraps of zinc she created for the roof were insufficient to protect her from the elements. I stared at her from afar, never wanting to approach her and be smacked above the head with the stick she used to get around, though she never responded to anyone or got hostile. She seemed to be in a world of her own. She seemed to notice no one.

She looked 60. But the exposure to the elements added at least 10 years to her slender frame. Her eyes appeared to have been drowning in their sockets and her skin looked dangerously thin, so much so I had feared her bones would have started protruding. Yet somehow, there was something mysterious about her. The mystery was a curious one. There was an intense level of sadness in her eyes that seemed to want to pull you in.

So the day I asked grandma about her, I was more than happy to hear the tale. “She was a beautiful girl”, grandma began. “She was smart too. Fresh out of high school. Her mother wanted her to go to college. ‘She have brains’, Aunt Claris used to say, and she would have been the first to attend college in her family. But Ida had other plans. You see Sanya, she was in love. Somehow, during high school, she fell in love with a young man. The problem is that his family was from the adjoining community and they were of similar background to Ida. They too were poor. But that was not the real problem. Ida, as you can see, is light-skinned and for some reason, those freckled-face Indian people always feel like dem was better than we, jus because of dem colour and pretty hair. Never mine the fack dat dem poor like wi, dem claim dat she should look somebady inna fi dem ‘class’.” Grandma stopped, realising that she was getting carried away with emotions.

“Anyway,” she continued in a calmer tone. “They objected to the relationship and told her she was never to see him again. Her family tried everything to keep them away from each other but it was no use. They would hide and meet. When the family realised that she was sneaking out to meet him, they tried to end it. Every day at 12 noon Ida and the boy would meet at the same spot. Same place under the poui tree.

However one day while Ida waited for her heart beat, I remember it was summer, around the same time the tree shed its flowers. One by one they seemed to fall gracefully to the ground and she stood there, waiting… but he never came.” Grandma stopped and sighed, then she continued.

“No one knew who did it, but that young man was found a couple chains from his house with his throat slashed. Ida waited there patiently, even though she was told he wasn’t coming. No one could bring themselves to tell her that he was dead. No one could pry her from that spot. Eventually the family gave up and disowned her.

‘No child a mine gonna mad ova nuh tutus bwoy’, Aunt Claris had declared. So they washed their hands clean of Ida and left her to the elements. Yu si dat frock she was always wearing?” grandma asked, before answering her own question. “Is the same frock she wore the day they were to meet. Every year at a certain time she put it on and stand patiently for hours, waiting for him to come.”

The frock grandma spoke about was a pink dress. But years of exposure and possibly constant washing had left it faded and tattered. It was decorated with pretty white flowers that seemed to eventually blend into the faded pink background. It was hard to imagine that it once fitted perfectly because the figure that I saw wearing it years after had withered to a mere skeleton frame. Miss Ida looked eerie, but I was too curious to run from her and too sympathatic to be scared, though I remained far.

So the day we found her lifeless body beneath the poui tree, everyone was sad, even the children who made her life miserable. That day Miss Ida was wearing her favourite dress, and the people of the community saw no reason to rid her of the garment she loved so much. The funeral was short but somehow as I walked with Grandma to view the body one last time, I noticed something different about Miss Ida. The familiar sadness didn’t seem to linger when I saw her anymore. Her face seem flushed, almost youth-like. And believe it or not, she appeared to be smiling. She was buried on her family plot. The community insisted on it.

The following summer, I had a strange encounter and it was that which led me to question Grandma about the life of Miss Ida.

*************************

Summer had rolled around yet again and that year the poui tree seemed to be at its prettiest. I was leisurely walking past, when I heard laughter. The funny thing was that I was alone. The tree danced in the wind, and the bell-shaped flowers, fell gracefully and decorated the ground below in the height of the afternoon sun. It was a magnificent sight. I stopped to investigate if children were nearby. There were none. The laughter continued. I realised it was coming from the direction of the poui tree. The silhouette of the two figures that appeared for a brief second before disappearing sent fear throughout my body. I stood there rooted to the spot for possibly two minutes wondering if I was dreaming before sprinting home to tell Grandma of the strange occurrence.

But grandma did not seem surprised at all. “It’s only Ida,” she responded leisurely with a smile. “She still lives under that poui tree. But the difference is… she’s no longer alone.”