We Rose Up Slowly v10.0

From Tales of Boris a Novel in Progress
1997 to May 2003

Back to page two ... Is it not wonderful to look out the window and see the loose things of the city escape?

Later, you told me what your mother said. How your father, the farmer rose up slowly. You told me how your mother wailed on the other end of the phone grieving her loss and complaining about the basketball of a goiter perched on her shoulder. She told you, your father walked onto the verandah and saw a chook floating ten feet above the ground. The chook didn’t flap a feather and just sat there brooding, swaying in the breeze.

She told you, your father stepped from the verandah to recover the recalcitrant chook, to find the soles of his feet missing the ground, landing on thin air and the chook drifting higher.

He couldn’t let the chook go but with each step he found the chook rose higher. And of course he had to follow. She told you it was like watching him walk a stairway to heaven. Your mother said, it didn’t appear at all as if he was flying, more like floating, like someone rising from the bottom of the ocean to the surface of the sea.

On the verandah your mother watched from below until your father and the chook became flecks in the sky. She rushed inside and grabbed the brass navy telescope. She saw him and the chook slowly ascending. She saw him wheeze and hold his chest. She could just see his head turning from one side to the other in wonder, marvelling at the view. He appeared to turn towards her. He was white and he coughed violently. But he did manage to stiffly turn around and, ever so slowly, raise his arm in a wave. And she thought she saw the chook, rising up slowly beside him, its neck outstretched and its scrawny beak open in a silent chicken scream. She squinted through the telescope and thought she saw the frost fur crystallising about his eyebrows and his false teeth chattering so hard the blood ran from his gums to warm his mouth. His arm stopped moving and she knew he was hard as a block of ice.

At the end of the phone call, I heard you in a weak, simple voice say,
“No, mum. No. Stay here with us. No, mum. No.”
I watched you breathe deeply, slowly and shake your head … and then you hung up. That was the last time you spoke to your mother. You turned to me and said,
“She wants to be with Dad. She was just saying goodbye.”
You wandered into the kitchen in search of liquorice ice cream.

It wasn’t long after we heard your mother had gone. She put the garbage out, left the cat with the neighbours, wrapped her clothes in brown paper and sent them to the Salvation Army and arranged for the liquorice ice cream drops to continue.

We talked. We examined our reasons for living. We talked about the future. I asked whether, now your parents had gone, you’d share the secret within your locket with me. You said no.

We decided to rise up slowly to follow the path your parents had taken. You hinted that you just might let me see your secrets. Just before the end. Just before we were to rise up slowly.

That morning, in the kitchen I found you making toast and eating ice cream. You were wearing a red sports bra and a tartan mini.
“Hey chook.” I said.
“Hey you.” You said.
“Today’s the day.”
The toast popped out of the toaster and hit the kitchen ceiling. You finished your bowl of liquorice ice cream. We knew what we had to do. I ate my toast. We washed up, wiped the bench tops and put the dishes away. We kissed. Then, almost to clean your mouth, you got the liquorice ice cream out again and ate straight from the tub.
“Hey chook. It’s OK. This is what we both wanted. Come on. Think of your parents don’t quit now.”
You stopped scooping out liquorice ice cream and you looked straight at me, a tear ran down your cheek and dropped from your chin to your chest.
“Come on. You said it to me yourself. Do we have more reasons to live than to die? Can we really say we have each other?”
I walked to you and I traced the path of the tear with my finger. Then I drew my finger over your locket and I traced around its edges and I couldn’t tell the difference between silver, skin and tears. They all felt the same to me. “Come on.”

I walked outside. Really, I wasn’t that pissed off. I wasn’t upset or sad. I just wanted to get it over and done with.

You followed me outside post liquorice ice cream and you held my hand and squeezed and smiled. You looked scared and anxious and you turned to me,
“Thank you, anyway.”
“Hey, it’s going to be OK.”
“Yeah, I know. Yeah. It’s just fuck the phenomena. Fuck the phenomena.”

You went inside for more liquorice ice cream. I stood outside watching the sky and remembered when we first met. Boob tube and baubles.

Then you returned. Liquorice ice cream over. You looked at me and unclasped the silver locket from around your neck. Instead of handing it to me you tossed it high into the air where it wafted slowly upwards.

You stepped up onto thin air.
“Come on. Follow me. Let’s do this together.”

I will follow you anywhere.

And so we let ourselves go. We rose up slowly.

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