Two Yellow Elephants

There were yellow elephants in front of her: Yes yellow. Two to be exact – a mother and her child.

Instantly, our twenty first century guise rears its head at this odd, perhaps idiotic, perhaps sheer ignorance of a description that signposts these two mammals as ‘mother and child’. We scoff, our prejudice born out of the entrenched belief that feminism has been anachronistically caged though in actuality, emancipated –

She looked up, irritated, distracted for a moment by a man who seemed to have glanced in her direction. The strange sort: trousers, jumper, glasses, black book in back pocket.

The bigger elephant, she thought, had these white circles for eyes, with small yellow pupils in it, which were leaning to the left, so she could check on the little elephant by her side, like a mother would.

There, was the man, again. Glaring at her.

“Why wouldn’t a father check on the small elephant like that?” His voice echoed, through her space; familiar intonations, rhythmic melodies, methodical words. Precision. It seemed to be coming out of the roof of the bus she was on, or perhaps the speakers; a torrent of invisible knowledge strafed all about her. It interrupted her journey. The elephants?...She had lost sight of the elephants as he spoke.

There was an illumination that bordered on discomfort on this bus. The lights. Why was she sitting at the back, this time, one, among a multitude? He spoke at intervals, voice, the bus journey, was so familiar, a warmth, presence beside her, vibrations from the engine on her seat, the yellow monkey bars handles too high up for her to reach, swaying side to side, the only sign that it hadn’t been this bumpy the first time.

A second.

Blood.

“He’s dead”

“He’s dead”

“O God, he’s dead”

Move the child away.

Nobody dared to move her, because in this spot she could feel his head just lightly pressed against her shoulder – it was enough, in this moment, the presence and the warmth was enough.

Her orange bag with the yellow elephants was covered in blood.

“Come here honey. That’s right. Come on baby.”

She shuffled her cemented feet towards the wrenching-soul’s stilling voice. Past the sympathisers, sorrowful, vengeful, nostalgic, optimists and....past her dad.

She saw him now as he had been then – there for her. His eyes unswerving from her little frame as she timidly trudged towards the woman. Every step seemed to signal movement away from him and the life that had been and he was sorry for it. – but he had been there, in that oversized blue shirt he had worn that day, which he so loved, and the brown trousers. He had actually been there. As her little feet had reached the woman and she had nestled her face into the soft woollen scarf around the woman’s neck, and she had twitched in realisation and he had flinched in discomfort for knowledge that it wasn’t the same scent, neither was there hair about the chin, and there would never be a kiss on her cheek – he watched on, then turned away, as though the thought of never being able to embrace her was death.

She knew. She knew. She had known that her father was dead but now she knew that he loved her. That was what had been missing all these years. The 20,000 in compensation; the most prestigious foster parents, and the 30,000 for the asylum could not substitute for that original love.

“Can I paint today?” she asked of the man with the black book.

“Yes. What will you paint?”

“Two yellow elephants. The big one will be checking on his little girl by his side.”