A fool’s errand -part 1
My love of flowers seemed to be the only special thing I had inherited from my parents, specifically my mother in whom I learned nothing else, except the art of gardening; if you could call scattering almost rotten tomatoes and pepper seeds across the backyard gardening. I remember always being amazed at seeing the first sign of life spring forth with determination from the brown rocky soil in the compound where I grew up, it almost inspired my becoming a veterinarian. The plant with its twisted and almost deformed arms would spread its joyous essence with reckless abandon, thanking my mother for her gift of life, and she would return the favor by fondly placing her stool beside the young plant every evening as she prepared dinner; whispering words of encouragement to the plant that seemed to awake feelings from her that were always hidden.
I always wondered how my mother was more comfortable talking to a plant than talking with me, she reserved the same aloofness with my father as well; never speaking to him unless she was spoken to and my hardworking father always seemed to prefer it that way. I remember the day my father had announced that he had gotten a new job as a delivery man for the local bakery, my mother’s only question to his news had been “How long would you be away for?” It wasn’t until my social studies teacher explained the term ‘dysfunctional families’ that I understood that the description fit my family perfectly.
My hour of refection was cut short when I heard someone call out something that faintly resembled my name. “Lilly, are you sleeping?” I heard the voice say and then realized I’d been dreaming again. I said nothing as I stretched my arms and wiggled my body to untangle my mind from the last snippets of my dream, with eyes wide open I scanned my surroundings taking in the familiar shadows that revealed themselves with the light of dawn and finally settled my eyes at the windows. “One more time,” I said to myself as I got out of bed and faced the same old new day.
I walked out of the room and adjusted my eyes to the bright florescent lights bouncing off the sea of grey, there was nothing left to do but stare at the walls and wait for the day’s instructions, I looked at my roommate standing in front of me; I scanned her outfit that was almost identical mine but for the sweater, she wore on top of it, we were all required to look similar at all times. I heard my colleague behind me whisper ‘Lunatic’ as if words could hurt me, I’d sooner suffer bleak walls for comfort than respond to idle insults so early in the day, I have to get ready for today, only today, for a tomorrow has not been promised.
Nothing was more important to me than keeping my job, I make clothes for a living, and I know it doesn’t sound fancy but it’s honest work, even though time-consuming and unfulfilling, my life also happened to depend on it. I heard the instructor lazily recite the itinerary for the day from the booklet in her hands before calling out “Prisoners 402- 415”, I noted the reflex smile on her face brought on by the pronouncement of ‘Four- fifteen’ as ‘For-fi-teeen’ and smiled at the irony. ‘415’ was my number; assigned to me three years ago like a dog-tag when I first arrived at ‘Jumera maximum prison’, this number would forever be used to identify me in life and death, I paused at that thought; for it didn’t matter how ‘415’ was pronounced since my number would undoubtedly pass through and be abused by different tribal dialect before my time was over.
