Whispers of Cloves

“Phara, why can’t you be normal? Like everyone else?”

What did that even mean?

I’d usually press for clarification when faced with such statements. But not now. Not anymore. The responses never seemed satisfying. If anything, they left me even more confused about who I am and who I am meant to be?

I struggled to fit into the confines of dutiful daughter, especially when the slightest disappointment led to accusations of inconsideration, ungratefulness, laziness, san wont.

What does one do, when they wish to live out their own dreams and not the dreams of others? What do you do when you’re bound by filial expectations, being born only to serve as a trophy for the whim of your parents, an opportunity to brag, and shame others? I’d strayed so many times onto the path of disappointment that it felt like a perpetual journey. One that I could only wish for an opportunity to escape from.

“Who wants to be normal? It’s a state of mind for the weak at heart and those lacking the courage to be more than a societal clone.”

My marenn, my godmother, Nadège, was my mother’s eldest sister. She was a woman who spared no one the audience of her opinions. And I often thought back to those words when I punished myself for not being normal. She entered a room, long before her footsteps could be heard. You were introduced to the beauty of Nadège by the mysterious aroma of cloves, gardenia, and something else that I could never quite figure out. She was as dark and as pure as unrefined coffee, her voice was deep and caressed the air just above your cheek with a gentle kiss.

I’d been blessed to resemble my godmother but fell short of sharing her personality. Where she roared, I mewed; where she sauntered, I stumbled; where she held her head high, I’d hide my visage. I’d never understood why I resembled Nadège more than my mother, but I cherished it, though in secret, since my mother’s envy would never allow me to live in such truth with pride.

The last day I saw her, I’d given her a hug. Curling the strands of her hair around my fingers as I savored the safety I felt in her presence. She had lived a life that I’d read about, dreamed of, and seen in movies. A life that in all my thirty years, I’d waited for, but gave up on.

I think my mother, secretly envied Nadège, wishing that rather than giving her life to marriage and children, she’d lived and loved freely too. Instead, she hid what she was always afraid to pursue behind a façade of judgement and scorn.

“I have some news, but first, gifts.” Nadège had said.

I had watched her reach into the tenné-colored leather bag she carried everywhere with her. The marks that marred its covering, telling tales of her exploits and proudly displaying the scars of the many battles she’d won throughout her history. One hand shook as she reached deep inside the cavernous pockets of her purse, while the other shot to her lips, barely catching a cough in a black handkerchief.

“I’m…fine…” she’d stuttered, making an effort to steady her breathing with a palm to the breast. “Phara, have you written anything lately?” Nadège asked, as she lowered her hand back into her purse. I hesitated. My writing was never something my parents supported. My father, though rarely home, expressed a desire for me to do more with my life. “Why can’t you be more like your cousins? They’re doctors and lawyers. Don’t you think we worked too hard for you to settle with what you are doing now?”

Translation, I can’t bare the shame of having a daughter who has a Bachelors in Literature. A daughter who works from the desk in her room writing articles for do-nothing people like her. In reality, I was an editor-in-chief for a local newspaper. It may not have paid six-figures, but it was enough for me to recover from the debt of pursuing an education, but not enough to do so outside of my childhood home. While I counted the remaining balance of student loans, I simultaneously planned an escape route. I was a mere $5,000 away, but in helping with the mortgage, paying for bills, food, medicine for my father, car repairs and anything else that came up, it would be another year or so before I made the acquaintance of freedom.

“No, I’ve been too focused on work, but I think I’m also a little blocked. There aren’t too many sources of inspiration.” The moment the words leapt from my tongue, I immediately felt regret.

My mother looked down before turning her back. She was supposed to be my inspiration. I was meant to aspire to be like her, but I couldn’t. I did not see myself dedicated to a marriage built on the expectation that I lose myself entirely for the sake of a man whose ego was stroked by the emotional and mental abuse he gave rather than the love that was needed. I was expected to fall into the same pattern. But I was thirty with no prospects and a job that made my parents more concerned with having a pedestal to look down from.

“I think I know what can help.” Nadège pulled from her bag a small notebook. The black leather binding called to me and when I touched it, it felt as though my fingers combed across a cloud.

A sigh escaped breath as a surge of…what…ran up my arms and grabbed hold of something deep inside me. “What is it?” Though in theory, I knew what it was. It was a notebook, but it felt like more; it beckoned as if between the pages, there were voices waiting to share with me their stories.

Nadège laughed, and for some reason, it made me want to cry. Something tugged at me, begged me to understand the notebook and its secrets, and the gesture Nadège was making. I wish I had known that deep down she was saying goodbye.

Instead, I managed a “Thank you,” grabbing the notebook with both hands, stopping short of snatching it in my excitement.

“It was mine.” She paused, wiping her lips with that handkerchief. “I would write all of my adventures in it, hoping some day to share them with the world.”

I opened the book, eager to get a glimpse. Warmed by the idea of learning names and places of people who crossed paths with her but found the pages blank.

“It’s empty,” more a question than a statement.

“Not quite,” was all she said before inhaling deeply, her gaze momentarily at the ground before looking up at me with a sad smile. “Phara, I need a moment with my sister.”

Now, I sat in the pew, clutching the notebook to my chest. It was the only beacon I had that could channel any sort of feeling or memory.

Nadège lay at the front of the church, shrouded in a beautiful white gown. Her hair braided and hugging the sides of her face, a wreath of gardenias atop her head like a crown. She lay in a gilded coffin of dark mahogany with golden accents of small flowers and vines. In death, her perfume seemed even stronger, but where it once brought me joy, it now felt like a personal attack.

The wails of people who had known her in life, echoed against the stained-glass windows. It was not in our culture to hold back from expressing despair, but I could not bring myself to sing with this chorus. I could only think about what I should have or could have done differently that last day I saw her.

I was desperately trying to memorize every detail of that day. Her hair, her voice, the last hug I gave her. I didn’t have anything else but that and this notebook.

I don’t remember saying my last goodbye, I don’t remember the ride to the cemetery, I don’t remember the flower that I tossed atop her casket as it was lowered to the ground. I just suddenly found myself alone. Staring at the hole in the ground that served as her place of rest. I’d ignored my parents asking me to return to the house, ignored everyone asking if I was okay, and ignored the prodding to “be strong.”

I sat on the ground beside her grave staring at the cover of the notebook.

“Why did you leave me?” It felt like a childish question, but I desperately needed an answer. Grief does not care for age, it does not distinguish between adults and children. All feel it with the same level of burning anguish and intensity. I felt betrayed. Left with a notebook that couldn’t give me what I craved most, Nadège’s guidance. Nadège’s footsteps so that I could follow them into the life I crave.

I sobbed then. The tears that refused to show face since hearing the news of her death wretched themselves from the depths of my soul, falling onto the soft leather cover. I was angry, but at who? Perhaps it was the realization that I could never be like Nadège that stung the most. How can I be like someone who is no longer here to guide me? There were still so many lessons to learn but my teacher was gone.

“What am I supposed to do? Where do I go?”

As if in response, the wind blew the notebook’s cover aside, flipping one, two, three pages until it landed on a page with writing that looked all too familiar. But how? I’d flipped through this notebook many times since I’d received it and not a scratch of ink. But now, I gazed down at a letter.

My dear Phara:

I told you that this notebook was not quite empty. I know you may feel slighted by being left only with my words on paper, but I’d hoped to leave you more than this. You have my spirit, my thirst for searching out all that life has to offer, and I too started this journey fighting the constraints of expectations. There is freedom in living one’s truth and I wish that so much for you. I only wish I could be present to witness your growth. I know finances have held you back and money should never be the reason why we cast our dreams aside. Unfortunately, such is life, but I leave you with this gift. Take this notebook to my bank. They have been provided with strict instructions to provide you, and only you with access to my safety deposit box. Therein you will find my treasures, memoirs of my adventures, and $20,000. Do more than I ever did in life and more than what anyone can dream to achieve. Your soul will thank you for giving it the freedom to soar.

With love,

Nadège

I reread the letter over and over. Opening and closing the cover to doublecheck its presence. The wind blew again, but this time it carried with it the smell of cloves, gardenias, and something else. Grace? Perhaps what I had always failed to identify was grace. Grace in knowing that I am more than the expectations placed upon me and knowing that I am destined for more than what I see immediately before me. I stood, brushing grass from my pants, and began walking. Letting the whispers of cloves guide me forward.