Gaila Memorial, 1/3
What if Gaila didn't come back. Three memorials from her friends.
Jade
Dropped in a gap opened up by inquiries, repairs and shock, he tours the cities and towns of Scotland with his hands jammed firmly in his coat pockets, and his eyes on nobody. An exclusion zone fits about him like a bell-jar.
There is a flower in Edinburgh that blooms but once then dies; a magnificent trailing spray of green petals that reach joyfully towards the roof of the tropical palm-house in the Royal Botanic Garden.
He crouches down on his haunches to examine fallen blossoms, wondering exactly what is the difference between a petal and a leaf. In this case, both are green, but the flowers shine, translucent and luminous with a light tint of sapphire through the copper, causing the eye of every visitor to be drawn in. All light in the room is absorbed then emitted by the flowers, so that they float in the space, illuminated from within. It is a brave specimen; hardy, and an efficient climber. Tendrils find their way to every purchase, anchoring it so it is strong enough to bear the weight of its final flourish.
If what ifs were credits, this visitor to the garden would be a wealthy man. He is already displaced, his trajectory altered by events he does not fully comprehend. Is there another of him somewhere else? Not crouching in a Victorian glasshouse, looking at the floor, but up there? Laughing, working, loving?
What if his swagger hadn't got the better of him? Instead, overconfidence led him by the nose to consigning a senior officer's pet to molecular separation.
Her face; her face was a storm. She smacked him then, “What do you mean, re-assigned? You work here!” Wild, red curls flew as she did, and on their final night, he heard her soft crying while he feigned sleep. In the morning, he made a clumsy attempt to make things better; he made them worse. Isn't that always the way? He told her it was for the best, she was a cadet, he was an instructor. Afterwards he wished to bite back every trite word, but once offered, they could not be recalled. And now her eyes, as he told his lies, appear each time he tries to close his own.
Friends got messages to him; he heard she was with Kirk. He knew her, it would be a bit of fun; it was always a bit of fun. The consolation for the consequence of his juvenile prank was to repeat this falsehood until it became his truth. Sometimes he would forget that he was supposed to believe it.
One bloom on the ground shines brighter than the others; fresh, healthy and strong. It is not apparent why it is fallen. Someone must have brushed against it, detaching it from its companions. Cause and effect. With a care that makes no sense, he lifts the bloom and casts it into the Japanese pond where it drifts, light and bright beside the dark, arched bridge, like a body in space.
Montgomery Scott unfolds his limbs and wraps his coat around him, despite the damp heat. Pulling his collar up, and his hat down, he walks from the tropical atmosphere into the freezing Edinburgh fog.
--End--
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.*
*Poem,On Raglan Road, (C) 1946 Estate of Patrick Kavanagh,
Jade
Dropped in a gap opened up by inquiries, repairs and shock, he tours the cities and towns of Scotland with his hands jammed firmly in his coat pockets, and his eyes on nobody. An exclusion zone fits about him like a bell-jar.
There is a flower in Edinburgh that blooms but once then dies; a magnificent trailing spray of green petals that reach joyfully towards the roof of the tropical palm-house in the Royal Botanic Garden.
He crouches down on his haunches to examine fallen blossoms, wondering exactly what is the difference between a petal and a leaf. In this case, both are green, but the flowers shine, translucent and luminous with a light tint of sapphire through the copper, causing the eye of every visitor to be drawn in. All light in the room is absorbed then emitted by the flowers, so that they float in the space, illuminated from within. It is a brave specimen; hardy, and an efficient climber. Tendrils find their way to every purchase, anchoring it so it is strong enough to bear the weight of its final flourish.
If what ifs were credits, this visitor to the garden would be a wealthy man. He is already displaced, his trajectory altered by events he does not fully comprehend. Is there another of him somewhere else? Not crouching in a Victorian glasshouse, looking at the floor, but up there? Laughing, working, loving?
What if his swagger hadn't got the better of him? Instead, overconfidence led him by the nose to consigning a senior officer's pet to molecular separation.
Her face; her face was a storm. She smacked him then, “What do you mean, re-assigned? You work here!” Wild, red curls flew as she did, and on their final night, he heard her soft crying while he feigned sleep. In the morning, he made a clumsy attempt to make things better; he made them worse. Isn't that always the way? He told her it was for the best, she was a cadet, he was an instructor. Afterwards he wished to bite back every trite word, but once offered, they could not be recalled. And now her eyes, as he told his lies, appear each time he tries to close his own.
Friends got messages to him; he heard she was with Kirk. He knew her, it would be a bit of fun; it was always a bit of fun. The consolation for the consequence of his juvenile prank was to repeat this falsehood until it became his truth. Sometimes he would forget that he was supposed to believe it.
One bloom on the ground shines brighter than the others; fresh, healthy and strong. It is not apparent why it is fallen. Someone must have brushed against it, detaching it from its companions. Cause and effect. With a care that makes no sense, he lifts the bloom and casts it into the Japanese pond where it drifts, light and bright beside the dark, arched bridge, like a body in space.
Montgomery Scott unfolds his limbs and wraps his coat around him, despite the damp heat. Pulling his collar up, and his hat down, he walks from the tropical atmosphere into the freezing Edinburgh fog.
--End--
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.*
*Poem,On Raglan Road, (C) 1946 Estate of Patrick Kavanagh,