Family Raffias

I followed my mother over some of the larger, pink-stained rocks near the sandy beach. Though the sand felt soft beneath my feet, the lines of edged rocks always nicked my toes, and the salt burned the cuts. The sand was warm, and heated the soles of my feet as we carried our families new mono-line to the ocean shore. My palms rubbed against the bark of the long slender tree cut to tie line to. Ten metres in front of me my mother focused on the ground, weaving through rocks, picking each step with care to land on only the soft ground. We reached the waters edge and my mother began to wade in, her brightly coloured garments darkened slightly by the water. I watched as each raffia, tied at intervals along the line, bobbed its way into the wake of sea. Finally the line grew taught and I walked, the ocean water cooled my skin, the salt agitated the small scrapes. We staked the new line near our many others, some already with cultivated seaweed floating lazily with the waves. I helped my mother tie, I helped my mother put in stakes, I helped my mother untangle the lines. She smiled at me as the job was done, I could feel her pride beat down on me with as much force as the sun. We waded back to shore, heading home to begin the choosing of planting material for the next season of kelp. The women of my family always did it, and I felt honoured, and accepted to help them. 

We began to sift through some of the material left capable of seeding. We found the healthier looking kelp material and sorted it into a separate basket, woven from the same palm fibres, raffias. I watched as my grandmother plucked each piece from the pile, inspected and tossed it into its appropriate basket. Her motions were relaxed, her hand was quick, and her eyes were good, despite her age. My mother was similarly calm while she worked. So I focused as hard as they did and worked, worked to sift through as much planting material as they did so effortlessly. I moved my hands like her, I scanned the pile as frequently as she, and I stayed as calm as my mother. 

Earlier in the day it had been unusually warm, warm enough to call the kids to the sandy beaches of Fiji, and warm enough to put worry in the wisest wrinkled faces. By the time we had sifted the seaweed to a satisfying amount the weather had become dangerously wild outside. We had sorted in a small shack that now creaked with the wind and small flecks of sand were being thrown in our faces. My grandmother tightened her grip around the basket of planting material, rank of fish, while my mother tightened her hold on my hand. My mother pulled the floral printed dress up over her nose, mimicking my grandma. So I followed her and did the same. We bent, the three of us staying close, and made our way to our home. 

I was terrified. There were many storms before but never had I been away from home, so close to the beach when one blew in. I clung to my mother and my dress, afraid it would rip and blow away with the rain. My eyes watered with the wind and I could no longer distinguish my tears. I held my breath, scared the wind would steal it away. My vision blurred, sand and rain became projectiles and the short walk home a battlefield. I was wet and shaking, but my mother held tightly. I heard my mother call out to my grandmother, and then saw her stop, bend down, then hurry to catch up with us. She no longer held the basket I had watched her weave a sunny day only weeks ago. Now my grandmother gripped my mothers hand as tightly as I, and we pressed on. We leaned into the wind as fiercely as the trees, and we pushed foreword like soldiers. Eventually the roof of our small home came into sight. We seemed to push harder and faster. Leaning at severe angles, holding each other tighter, gritting our teeth through the pelleting rain. We whipped the door open, the wind nearly pulling it from its hinges, and scuttled inside, wet and broken. 

My mother rushed to my father’s arms, my two smaller brothers coming to the aid of my grandmother and I. With towels and blankets around us, our family sat. My dad, nervous about the coming harvest sat near my grandmother and spoke quietly with her, filling her cup with warm root tea each time she finished. The wind blew, the structure moaned with the storm, and the environment of paradise became savage. As hours passed my father’s face became stern. We all knew our kelp lines would be torn apart by the weather’s passing. It was a hard loss. I glanced over at my two brothers, sleeping soundly beneath the blanket and knew that getting to school this coming year would not be as easy as other years had been. I felt a slow sinking feeling, of disappointment, of sadness for losing a better life in the coming time. I lied my head on a close pile of textiles. My still damp hair pressing against my skull, as I dozed to sleep. 

I woke the next day to peace and quiet. The storm had passed through and was now over. I rolled over and stretched, opening my eyes to the small room. Across the space my parents sat, tying raffias to lengths of measured fibres. To the side of them lay a pile of prepared mono-lines stacked as high as my mother sat. They looked up and saw I was awake. We said our good mornings, then I crossed the short distance and I sat next to my parents. The sun warmed through the thinner worn walls of our house and brightened our moods as we worked. In the corner my grandmother organized another basket of planting material already stockpiled should rough weather roll in. My brothers still slept, but none minded, yet as they woke we all went, carrying mono-lines and baby kelp. We staked the lines in, and tied the kelp to the raffias. I worked next to my mother, we moved our hands in time and tied every knot as tightly as we had held hands that night before. The sun was warm that day and the salt burned, but as my family proudly replanted the kelp, our resilient passion burned hotter. 

Author's Note

Just be honest, comment if you gave your time!

Reviews

[JC]

a really visually beautiful write here, could be start of a truly amazing novel...