"The Knights of Spring" by Malena Gronda Garrigues

​​Do you remember, Grandma, that sunny day we decided to have a picnic? I think I was around seven years old when you told me the news. I remember going out, the sun caressing my skin, the soft wind whispering to me in an unspoken language, creating a perfect spring day with just a hint of chills from last winter. We trotted to a nearby hill that was small but steep yet rewarding after climbing to the top. A dark oak tree covered the surface, creating refuge and shade all around. Looking around all I could see were the little white flowers, blooming from the ground and reaching into the blue sky. Those little flowers, name unknown, seemed like white bells; every time the wind blew, they followed the rhythm, back and forth, back and forth. These spring flowers gave the hope of summer arriving and winter receding; they gave a warm and gentle aura that made me tingle and feel secure. It was a harmonious place, and I shared the moment with you as we sat down on that grassy hill surrounded by those little white knights of spring. 

content warning: domestic abuse, drug use, overdose

The silence was broken by the buzzing of bees that hovered over each one, working incessantly through the heat of the day. Do you remember, Grandma, when you let out a small whine that subtly disquieted the peacefulness of nature? Turning back to you I could tell your eyes were swollen up a little, incarcerating tears. Yet you gave me a bright smile, even brighter than the sun as you told me that everything was fine. But I knew, as you ate your sandwich, that your delicate hands had been touched by pain. A red bump had emerged from your pale and fragile finger that looked almost like a little berry. The work of a bee, I later realized, yet at the time I didn’t say anything, because you said nothing was wrong, right Grandma?

Unlike that day, the cold stale smell from my room was not a memory as precious to me. My room was chilly and dusty, my bed was in the corner and always squeaked when I moved in it. Accompanying the single bed was a short table—with no chairs—made of wood. The wood was filled with scratches and pockmarks, used and old. On cold winter days when there was no blue sky, no white flowers, the only thing was my room. I remember my knees aching after sitting beside that table for hours; they would cramp but my hands would keep moving as I worked on the next work of art that I could proudly present to you once I was done. Grandma, you were by my side those days, just there thinking. You weren’t drawing or looking at me draw, just staring at the small window above us that displayed the cloudy day. The jealous clouds that covered the sky in order to get all the attention. You were lost in thought, Grandma, as if you weren’t even there. Your eyes filled with doubt and confusion, as if trying to figure out what the world had planned for you, but I know that you were never able to figure it out. And like the clouds that covered the blue and serene sky because of jealousy, your eyes started changing as well. Every time someone was happy, every time someone laughed in the street, your eyes had the same cloudy look.

I remember those dark nights when not even the moon appeared, when the screams tore through the midnight sky, when even the mice in the kitchen didn't dare to squeak. The screams could be differentiated; one, sturdy and angry, belonged to my grandfather who had just come back from drinking. Someone I knew you truly didn't love. The other scream was filled with fear and agony, belonging to you.

In my room, on my lonely bed, I covered myself up with my blanket. It was thin and worn, the patterns were awkward, and it held a strong unpleasant smell. But I still valued it; I didn't care if it was broken, old or smelled, because after all it was your gift, one you made with all your love, and right now I was using it as protection, trying to mute those around me, trying to disappear in plain sight. The darkness was welcomed as I pretended I didn’t exist. But even that pretend game couldn’t hollow out the noises, the vibrant sounds of your pain. The whole apartment echoed it, and my grip around the blankets became sturdier.

A knock would always follow as silence reached into the night once again and everything went back to normal. The knock on my door was clear but soft, as if trying to hide something. I would never answer those knocks, since the door would slowly open anyways, creaking as it let the light from outside shine through. A single black silhouette would pass through and walk slowly towards my bed. As I peered through my thin blanket I would always know who it was. The way the silhouette walked in an elegant movement, feet carefully placed to avoid any unwelcome sounds from the fragile wooden floor. Grandma. It was always you that came after those loud noises. It was always you, the one that sat on the edge of my bed and asked in a soft whisper if I was awake. As I gave a soft nod, you would put your hand on my head and carefully pat it while smiling and calling me your beautiful boy. But that smile was not real; I always knew that very well. Right next to that smile was your cheek. The outline of a hand was perfectly placed upon your fair skin. It was red, as if someone had just painted it. As I kept staring at it, you smiled at me and I eventually closed my eyes, wondering where you got the red paint from.

The cold nights where I was incapable of sleeping were different from the dark ones. On those nights, I would stare at the ceiling covered with peeling white paint that had turned into a dirty yellow over the years, not reflecting the same pure white color that the little flowers in the hill held. There had always been a dripping problem, in the ceiling at the corner of my room, but nobody ever bothered to fix it, not even me. Every night when I couldn’t sleep I would pay attention to the rhythm of the drops splashing to the floor. Drip drop, drip drop. The harmony of the familiar sounds relaxed me, but not enough for sleep to get a hold of me. Instead it would put my body at ease but my mind at thought, to the point that I became restless. On some nights I would decide to get a glass of milk and on my way there I would find you, lying on the couch covered by a thin sheet of cloth that barely covered your whole body. The window to the left, always opened, let moonlight in. It reflected your state. Your saggy cheeks with smudged mascara on. Your bruised neck and your shivering body, caused by the air entering through the window. I remember, Grandma, your thin arms grabbing onto your pillow as if your life depended on it. And maybe it did.
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Your fragile figure curled up into a ball looked helpless, and it made me feel things. I don’t know what, but from that moment on, I knew that I needed you in my life, and that no matter what happened I would always be by your side, the same way those little white knights protected spring and always stayed by the hillside.

I remember laying right next to you on the floor, the wood boards cooling my cheeks. I would stretch out my hand and intertwine my fingers with yours. I never wanted to let go. Slowly but surely my eyes weakened and the only thing I felt was the warmth coming from your small hand. That was how I would fall asleep on those dark nights, where sleep only came when I felt you close.

In the small apartment where we lived, there was only one bathroom. It was a mess, as you might remember, Grandma. The bathtub was filled with empty beer cans, the toilet was always trying to flush something it wasn’t supposed to, and the small mirror on top of the sink had a huge crack through the middle. Yet that was normal for our bathroom; it had always been that way. The blue and white tiles on the wall bore witness to it. But there was something I noticed that started to change. Slowly but surely more little bottles started appearing in the bathroom. They were transparent with a tint of orange, allowing me to see what it tried to hide: little white capsules. Round and tiny but plentiful. In a way, it sort of resembled the blooms of spring. 

​They first started next to the sink, two or three bottles, but then they started spreading like wildfire, as they ended on top of the mirror, the toilet seat, and the bathtub which had once belonged only to the alcohol cans. One morning I got the courage to ask you what they were. I don't know if you remember, Grandma, but you said, “They are my happy pills.” I asked excitedly if I could have one, and I remember your soft laugh as you wagged your head side to side. A sad hollow laugh that was filled with emptiness and pain. I never asked again.

I think as the years went by, I became aware. And with this awareness came regrets. Regrets for not questioning everything you did. Regrets from not questioning your “pills of happiness.” You probably won't remember, Grandma, the day when that realization hit me, when I found you on the bathroom floor.

The moment I tried opening that door I knew there was something wrong. As the door opened, it led to your pale body against the dark wooden floor. The blue and white tiles of the walls surrounding your lifeless body. The smell reached my nose instantly as it tried to escape the small bathroom.
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Then there were the happy pills. They were scattered along the whole room. On top of you, the sink, on the floor, toilet. These white insignificant dots made me remember the hill. The hill I climbed with you. They were just like the little white flowers surrounding us, as if they were protecting something; the little white flowers gave new hopes of warmth coming. These pills, however, were not the same. They didn't give the same aroma, they didn't provide the same comfort, and that was all I could focus on as my grandfather came in screaming, as people hurried in to pick you up, as the noises of the ambulance filled the outside world. I went numb as I realized those pills weren't there to bring hope or security just like the little white flowers that surrounded the hill did.

I know you don't remember anymore Grandma; all those special moments I had with you. Some of them I would rather forget but I know I shouldn’t.
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Spring is coming back again and I will soon be able to see the flowers with you one more time. Today is a wonderful day as the sun heats the air, the grass flows and the birds chirp. People are walking around with black clothes that seem stark against the grass. As I focus on my feet that somehow seem to be walking on their own, I realize that I’m heading upwards, towards the top of the hill where the oak tree stands. The shade is welcoming after the steep climb. I take the opportunity to look around, and Grandma, it's the same as the last time we looked at the view. The bees are buzzing. There is still a little bit of wind left from last winter that blows my hair, giving a nice breeze. And... oh, Grandma... the flowers are back. The little tiny white flowers crawling towards the blue sky. They have the same rhythm, the same gentle aura, the same sense of hope. These are the real white knights of spring, and as people gently place your body in the casket on top of the hill, I’m sure they will protect you.

​Malena Gronda Garrigues is a 17-year-old girl from Spain who has a dream of becoming an architect someday. However, apart from her love of designing buildings, she also enjoys writing during her free time. Malena was born in New York, but has lived in Spain for almost all her life and speaks Spanish and English fluently. She is currently learning Mandarin and Japanese. Her hobbies include playing basketball and the viola.