Stories

   Flower village.

   It was the name of caring center for homeless, disabled or elders needing special care. When our school announced it was mandatory for students to do ‘volunteer works’ in the flower village for three days. The first thing that came into my mind; the name was rather funny.

   In the center, people taken care of were living in different areas of the ‘village’. They were classed according to different level of needs—different kinds of people in different sections and floors. To be frank, I thought the village was bizarre at first.

Every time I met anyone, I was to say ‘I love you(sa-rang-hap-nee-da)’, preferable drawing a heart with my arms above my head. It was ‘the official bowing custom’ in the village. The community in fact had the awkward and rather unnatural—that comes from something man-made- atmosphere embedded in its every bit. Wall decorated with ceaseless pattern of flowers, bright flower decorations on the duvet sheet, cups, frames, and on grandmothers’ blue and pink clothes. They seemed to cover up ‘flower villagers’’ awkwardness, pretending everything was flowery and nice when they were not. They seemed to cover up misery of those people by pretending there was nothing but happiness. It was a small society created just for them.

   After having been allocated to the third floor with three other girls to serve ‘grandmothers’, I became a step closer to the flower village. Literally, everyone had a story to tell. It is obvious that everyone has a story to tell. However, I only became fully aware of the fact when I actually was to hear those stories. Flower villagers had stories to tell, like everyone else around me. When they were categorized as one big group—flower villagers, those who fell through the crack in the society, those with ‘flaws’—they all had a story to tell.

   The first confrontation was not so easy, before I got to hear the stories. First ten minutes given to me to have some ‘decent conversations’ with grandmothers were the longest one I had ever had.

   ‘Did you have breakfast?’, ‘The weather is so hot these days, isn’t it’, ‘would you like a massage?’ or ‘the clothes suits you well!’. The most creative one I came up with probably was ‘the duvet and your shirts are both blue!’ for the purpose of paying a compliment.

There were various kinds of people there. Some who greeted us with naïve-five-year-old-girl’s smile, showing off her bracelet. The stern grandmother who would not talk to us, no matter what. A grandmother in blue flower shirts and brown flower pants refusing our hugs. A Child-like grandmother lying on the bed, gripping our hands tightly. We even had the one who constantly shouted, though it was unclear,

   ‘Your home is the best! Anyone who cannot go to their home are jerks.’

One asked me if I knew this person ‘A’. I said I did not, but she kept asking if I knew him and if he bought me any food to eat. Then she started to brag about how he earned a lot of money and was having a successful life. After talking about this A person for a while, I told her I had to go. She thanked me and said goodbye. Then she said,

   ‘Ask him why he is not coming. Okay? Please ask him to come. Ask him why he is not coming to see me.’

   I promised I would.

   There was another mother-like grandmother who could not speak very well, like some other flower-villagers. She tapped on her forehead, and then her neck, murmuring something like car accident. There was a scar in her neck. Beside the mother-like grandmother, we had a calm grandmother. She is the one I remember the most.

She was lying on the bed. When my friends and I entered the room, our eyes met. The calm black eyes, fainted black as time and hard work brought to her. At first, her tranquility, which was a rare thing to observe among flower-villagers, surprised me. In a gentle manner she asked me where I was from and suggested that I sat down. I held her hand. It was warm. Like I did to some other grandmothers, I began the conversation saying that she had a pretty manicure on her fingernails. She replied saying,

   ‘They are ugly hands. The hard works I did changed my hands.’ There were wrinkles, spots, and hard skins revealing her past, her own story. Next, I was surprised by how her attitude and hands resembled the one of my own grandmother used to have. I held her hand tightly, with choking feeling in my throat, unable to say anything. Sound of breezing wind, touching the leaves. Hands at the clock ticking idly. Busy noise from hover machine at the corridor. Tangible silence.

   ‘It is not the work that kills people’, she said. ‘It is the time that kills. Everyone dies when the time comes.’

   I wanted to say something, but could not.

   ‘I, too, will die someday.’

   As if she was talking about the weather that day or some village events taking place. Her calm words violently shook my reminiscent of the past event, bringing up again the sentiment, thoughts and even the smell of it. Still, silence.

   Nonetheless, she told her story in her calm eyes staring empty shape in the room, as if there was something. She began to tell me about her past. How she wanted a bowl of rice but could not say it our loud fearing the scolding from her older brother. Then she told me about her son. She said he did not want her to work too much, but she had no choice. The son cried at her back. But she hit him whenever he did.

   Reciting exact street number of her house, she spat out,

   ‘They told me to come here. So I’m here. But since they do not tell me to go back…’

   When I told her I had to go and work upon teachers’ call, calm grandmother told me not to go, in a way that my own grandmother once asked me to stay with her.

Calm grandmother, her story and her words filled my thoughts during the whole stay in the flower-village along with other stories I heard.