Time: Book Project

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Trace of Life

Natalie Lam

 

Item No. 1: Phone Charger

6.24.17

She holds the laughter in, keeping quiet to herself, meanwhile engrossed in a silent conversation with the small screen contained delicately in the palm of her hands. She walks along the gravel path by the water, a gentle breeze brushes her hair and tickles the nape of her neck. A vast green field runs over gentle hills on the opposite side of the path, wooden tables and benches scatter the span of green meadow, two of which are occupied by energetic toddlers and tired parents. A group of cyclists swerve around her and race toward the steepest incline of the park, momentarily creating a whirlwind of humming wheels. A dog barks in the distance in conversation with another. All this, she does not notice. To her, the world dwells only in the small screen in the palm of her hand. Oblivious. Except…the next minute, the screen turns black. Void of life, millions of pixels disappear within the second, or perhaps it had never even existed. Frustrated, she reaches into her purse in search of a cord. This particularly extraordinary cord that she knows has the power to revive the blackened screen. This cord that has long fallen out of her purse and now lies abandoned under the maple tree.

Item No. 2: Watercolour Paint

5.6.13

The bristles on the brush are saturated with blue liquid, barely grazing the surface of the canvas, suspended amid its surroundings. The air is still in this very moment, almost as if in waiting. The spell of the delicate scene is interrupted as the paint slowly trickles onto the wooden handle of the brush and falls toward the ground. He notices this before it reaches the soil, and watches as it disappears ever so quickly, dissolved by the earth. With that, he emerges from the vision in his mind and returns to the present moment. Struck by new found inspiration, he runs his brush over the blank canvas with coats of blue and white, every stroke a new shade of soft blue. He paints the sky, the pond, and the earth through sapphire lens. Layer after layer of blue is applied to the surface. Each brushstroke becomes more fervent in eager anticipation. His eyes dart from one point to the next, memorizing the scene in his mind and projecting it onto the canvas. Almost done, but not quite. He reaches for the tube of blue paint, his eyes never once leaving the painting and proceeds to squeeze more paint onto the palette. He stops mid stroke. The tube is empty. The last few drops of blue liquid sit loosely on the fine bristles of the brush in his hand. Second after second, gravity pulls the paint toward the ground and the artist watches as his last remaining strokes of blue watercolour sink deep into the soil, coalescing with the earth.

Item No.3: Jar Lid

5.13.92

Closing her eyes she places her hand gently over the grass, fingers skimming softly over the top of the grassy blades like an affectionate friend. Familiarly intimate, she smiles to herself. Her head is lifted slightly toward the umbrella of leaves above her head, swaying ever so slightly to reveal the sun behind its canopy. Eyes still closed, she yearns to catch the whisper of the ocean in the distance, lapping harmoniously with the breeze. Slowly, she blinks at the sky and reaches into the wicker basket by her bare feet. Out she pulls a glass jar filled with freshly made blueberry jam. She examines the rounded jar in tender admiration, though seemingly mundane at first glance, she now notices the detailed calligraphy embossed on the surface while running her fingers over the smooth lid, stained in a deep green and cool to the touch. Unscrewing the jar, she places the lid on the grass, and almost immediately, the familiar smell of a sweet fruity concoction escapes its once intimate space of the jar into the open atmosphere. The lid lies still on the ground, disguised by the thick blades of grass as she inhales the rich scent while dipping her finger into the jam, captivated by its natural sweetness. The lid lies still on the ground. Forgotten. Still on the ground, the lid lies. Neglected.

Item No. 4: Piece of Fabric

8.26.87

He sits to observe. Running children, barking dogs, tired couples, bored teenagers. Everyday, it’s more or less the same. Sitting under the maple tree has been routine for too many years to recall. After a morning under the sun in the back garden, he retrieves his flannel sweater off the solitary hook by the front door, lights a cigarette and sits under the old tree, supported by its thick trunk. He leans his head against the rough bark and allow the smoke from the disintegrating cigarette to escape slowly between his lips, relishing in its distinct rustic odour. This particular afternoon, the sun is beating down relentlessly as it wraps its tendrils of golden rays across every exposed surface. Feeling a familiar dampness on his neck, he shrugs the sweater off and tosses it absentmindedly next to him. Closes his eyes. Minutes, maybe hours later, waking from a light slumber, he pushes himself off the grass. Escapes routine.

Item No.5: Earl Grey Tea Sachet

10.28.82

Every evening, as the sun begins to set, she steps onto the porch, and inhales a deep breath in preparation for her daily stroll by the pond. This evening, she hugs a warm mug toward her chest as the leaves begin to fall, sprinkling the yard with yellows, reds, and browns crinkling with every footfall. The air is brisk, cool enough to leave a sting of autumnal frost on one’s skin in welcoming the upcoming wintry season. Exhaling, her breath emerges as a puff of visible air. Looking across the horizon, she glimpses the moon peeking behind a thin layer of clouds, awakening for its nocturnal watch. Today, she walks quicker than usual. Her fingers wrap tightly around the mug, craving for warmth. Every few strides, she brings the mug to her lips, igniting the herbal aroma on her tongue. She feels the hot liquid glide smoothly down her throat as it carries the warm essence of lavender into the core of her body. She slows her pace as she nears the mid way point of the route, preparing to turn back. Tonight, however, instead of returning home today, she walks toward the pond, still like a pane of glass, reflecting sky on flat ground. She finds a seat on the empty bench under the old tree and just for a moment, all is silent. And it appears that sometimes even nature conspires to make time stand still. If not for the steady swirl of heat escaping the mug and evaporating into the cool night, she would have remained sitting on the bench beneath the falling leaves until morning.