Susan LaffertyRefuge. In the tropical afternoons of my childhood.
I’m sitting on soft dirt. Amid twisted roots. Under a canopy of thick, intertwined bougainvillea branches growing by the backyard fence.
Shelter. From unrelenting sun.
Shade. For afternoon play with plastic teacups and bowls. A plentiful supply of leaves and blossoms within reach.
The secret place where I can rest. And just be.
Loss.
The memory comes back. Distinct. Clear. From 1972. One hot, humid afternoon in Kediri, Indonesia.
I’m just arriving at our home. After being away for high school a couple of months. In Jakarta.
Standing outside. Reaching for the handle of the screen door. And suddenly a subconscious map surfaces. One I never knew was there.
A map of presence. Home and those who belong in it.
Without warning, the realization of deep loss hits. Full force. There’s an empty space on that map.
The place where my sister Ann has always been.
Grief. Tangible.
The early 1960s in Indonesia were years of political upheaval. The Communist party was strong and growing in power. There were protest marches in our city against Malaysia and against the British.
I remember the air raid drills in Surabaya when I was 4 or 5 years old. The siren would blow and every light had to be turned off. We sat in the dark until the siren blew again. If it happened during dinner time, Mom put a sock over a flashlight and fed my baby brother by its faint glow.