Where is Sarah Jane? Was she safe with the one who painted the rubble? How could he have? How could he have painted the rubble?
Sarah Jane, Sarah Jane my babe. Sarah Jane. Come here.
There in the corner of the garden, just in between the ivy hedge and the jasmine bush was our little wee afternoon tea table. On the table stood a pottle of jam, and a butter knife, some butter and a plateful of brown bread. There was a pottle of peanut butter, with its lid off, and a little teaspoon, with greasy handles, stuck in the middle of it. It sat there half finished. I heard her laugh, and I laughed. Sarah Jane my babe.
Today was the day, we sat at the table again. It was the day so I called out to her. Sarah Jane, Sarah Jane, dear Sarah Jane, Sarah Jane my babe come here.
My little Sarah Jane turned to look at me and then she came running and jumped, with my help, onto my knee. I rearranged my white skirt that had creased up underneath the little girl. We sat in the garden and had bread and jam. On our little afternoon tea table. She on her little chair, and I, because I barely fit on that wooden stool, sat crossed legged on the floor. She began to butter the bread with the knife and took the little teaspoon out of the peanut butter pottle and stuck it in the jam. I winced and she giggled. She giggled so hard her whole body would shake. And it would be such a funny sight that I would burst out laughing, and that made her giggle even more. And when she stopped giggling, she would slap on spoonfuls of jam on a piece of brown bread and took a huge bite, licked some jam of the bits she couldn't fit in her mouth and then left the rest for me. Rain rain, she said, here's your half. I screwed up my face, thank you sweetheart, but it will be nice if you shared the jam too. She stuck her little teaspoon into the pottle of jam and stuck it in my mouth. There, plenty of jam for u. And we both giggled so hard we would choke on our bits of toast. What a messy sight.
He always came at such a time, when we were messy, with jam in our hair, rolling on the ground. He would come and pick us both up. He would plop me on the ground beside Him, put Sarah on HIs knee and then with His free arm drew me close to Him. So close. We would snuggle up close to him, and listened to HIs stories, the three of us, sometimes four and one more. And we would giggle and laugh, and play stupid games until it was time for Him to go again. Sarah would often cry when it was time for HIm to go, and He would leave a little gift behind, most often from His right breast pocket. A little painting, or a pink and white daisy. Her favourite, pink and white daisies. These simple pretty flowers, with both pink and white petals. He made them just for her you see, and so it was her favourite. She would smile and let Him go.
I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up, Sarah was gone. She must have gone home with the father.
Sarah, Sarah Jane! Sarah Jane, my babe, where are you Sarah Jane?
Where is Sarah Jane? Was she safe with the one who painted the rubble? How could he have? How could he have painted the rubble?
Today I explored the garden a little. Sarah fell asleep and I got restless waiting for her so I walked around a bit. I saw the canvas, the vast white clean canvas. I saw Him standing, with the other two. And I crept up closer so I could see my Father paint. He saw me and smiled, the other two drew me up close and I sat on His knee as He painted. And I listened, as He painted Anna, a blonde little girl so full of energy. With every stroke of brush, the Father breathed in life, a bit of Him is left in every drip of paint, stroke of brush. His beauty poured out and filled Anna, the little blonde girl, so full of life, so beautiful. And then tears filled HIs eyes as He kissed His little Anna good night. The brush He placed in little Anna's hands, the day she was born to a man.
I watched in horror as she painted her first stroke. She tainted the picture the Father so perfectly wrote.
I looked up at the other and took His hand. He nodded and said, but I will make the painting right again.
I must have fallen asleep because when I woke, they were gone.
Sarah, Sarah Jane! Sarah Jane, my babe, where are you Sarah Jane?
Where is Sarah Jane? Was she safe with the one who painted the rubble? How could he have? How could he have painted the rubble?
The father was painting again and I sneaked up behind him and put my arms around his neck. He laughed and picked me up and sat me down beside him. What are you painting? I asked. He pointed. and I saw. What was the roof of my carefully built house lay on the ground, and the walls that held it up, rubble. Rubble. I swallowed the pain as I forced myself to stand. Complete utter ruin. Utter ruin.
My father painted the rubble.
I gasped. And I turned, and I ran.
Where is Sarah Jane? Was she safe with the one who painted the rubble? How could he have? How could he have painted the rubble.
I turned and turned, there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to turn. I could not turn back to the one who painted the rubble. Bitterness, a vile taste began to creep up my throat and fill every crevice in my mouth. My stomach began to turn and as if it helped, I coughed, I coughed as hard as I could. And I spat.
It was dusty and I could hardly breathe, but that didn't matter anymore, breathing alone suffocated me. My eyes were so dry, and the pit of my stomach, beginning from my tighs began to go numb. I was cold, cold, so cold. So numb. My father painted the rubble.
Aimlessly I headed towards the garden again. And this time Sarah Jane, I did not find. The canvas stood on its easel and I had to stop to look. I hated the fact that I was back in HIs garden, why did they even let me in again? But I had to look.
As I looked at the picture my eyes hardened, and I tried to harden my heart a bit just to brace myself for what I am about to feel. I stood in horror as I saw the picture of the pale little girl, laying still, fetal position, in pain. Pain. Excruciating pain flowed from every part of the body in the picture. Her tender hands, and her once pink cheeks now drained, all its blood, its colour, its life, drained to the pool on the floor. Drawn out, by that knife in her heart. All life, drawn out, by that knife. My eyes studied the pale little girl, as she lay still, in the fetal position, in pain. I stared at it. I stared at it. I stared at pain crystalised forever, and I gasped. The feeling I braced myself for? I never felt it. I felt nothing. Wide-eyed I stared at the picture of my Sarah Jane's crystalised pain.
Pink and white daisy carpeted the ground. Pink and white daisies. I choked.
He painted the rubble.
Where is Sarah Jane? Was she safe with the one who painted the rubble? How could he have? How could he have painted the rubble?
I walked away.
I must have fallen asleep because when I woke, I was amidst the rubble. And I had in my hand.....
I held the knife that caused dear Sarah Jane's pain.
Sarah Jane. Sarah Jane.
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