Decades to Wait ’ til Sunrise ( I ’ ve Heard of You )
Shanghai American School , Cheung , Lauren – 16
I t started out with whispered prayers , spoken by the elderly who still remembered a time long past . I ’ ve heard , some of them said , reverent and wistful , that they ’ re coming back . Word spread quickly , like tufts of dandelion seeds dispersing ; people spoke into the wind , and in turn the wind told the birds as they began their annual migratory journey back into the city . They flew with zephyr and soul under wing , carrying with them the desire to find their way home and bitten-out wishes they had caught in the wind .
( I ’ ve heard , I ’ ve heard , I ’ ve heard that ––)
In the city , telephone wires hummed with energy electric-sharp ; streetlamps winked to a rhythm of a song only they heard ; trees shivered , leaves tousled .
The susurrus of the wind blew southwards . Whispers became murmurs , disjointed and jumbled , kicking up leaves and dust and sand . The birds watched and listened to snatches of thoughts left unfinished .
(–– they ’ re coming back .)
A thrush landed not a meter away from the foot of a drunkard who laid prostrate in an abandoned back-alley . Haven ’ t you heard ?
I ’ ve heard that –– if you repeat something enough , it will come like manna from heaven –– that they ’ re coming back .
The bird chirruped . The man stirred . Oh , it ’ d been so long since he ’ s heard the sweet whistle of birdsong .
Come back , the bird sang . Come back . And he listened .
Listen :
There was a man who , in the middle of a ferocious revolution , could do nothing but stand at the sidelines and watch as buildings fell into smoking ruin , watch as bayonet tips became spotted and rusted with blood . Do you know , he asked the wind , how quickly buildings can crumble ?
The wind ruffled his hair in consolation and in reply . I will make sure , the man vowed , that memories will not erode as quickly .
The people fought for him . His name fell from their lips in a litany of battle songs , swelling into a chorus above the wind as their hearts beat in tandem to rapid machine-gun fire . The man swallowed , tasted ash and copper in the back of his throat as bullets defaced the marble façades of buildings and marred the bodies of young revolutionaries foreign to the throes of battle . I ’ m sorry , he doesn ’ t say , because the people never asked for his forgiveness , only for his blessing . He kept vigil under the archways of Shikumen buildings , un ange qui pleur , and he learned :
There is no dignity in death .
There was a man who used to pick up empty wine bottles and hold the lip of them to his eye like an explorer would to a spyglass , looking towards city horizons distorted and tinged green ( he saw nothing ). An explorer he became , a self-learned connoisseur of wine and liquor , an imitation sommelier of the city rats ; the captain of a barque ship sailing endlessly towards the horizon , towards the bottom of a bottle . He jumped from city to city , chasing the sun , his own shadows , the sour taste of liquor on his lips . If alcohol could cleanse wounds , he reasoned , then perhaps it could absolve his body of sin .
Come back .
The man heaved himself up from his place in the gutter , limbs controlled by a clumsy-fingered marionettist , feet tripping over cobblestone . He regarded the bottle in his hand with little more than a sharp