We live in a meadow, far away from civilization.
No, not really. But far from the city, far enough that we can’t hear the cars, close enough to go buy groceries.
We live in the nest, and we love it there. The nest doesn’t really look like a nest, we just call it that because it’s on a tree. It’s a tree-house, one we built ourselves.
To reach the nest, there is a green rope ladder, attached firmly to the bottom of a platform. The house is on top of the platform. The house is a dark brown, because we lined the outside with the rough wood making up a bark’s shell, so water doesn’t seep into the walls during the monsoons. The platform is lined with the same kind of wood as well, only, we went over it with waterproof paint once, so it doesn’t get mouldy and rotten- or the house will fall.
But the inside of the house is something else altogether. Once you open the dark blue door with the golden handle, you tend to strike a flock of gold birds- hand-made windchimes Coco crafted out of tinfoil- with the back of the door. The sound they make as they dash into each other is soft; a tinkling, chittering of-sorts, as if they were real sparrows. Ahead of you, is the entire house, the entire nest.
The floor is carpeted with a furry blue rug, as it gets cold up here quite often. There are two windows, both usually open, a cool, whistling wind singing through the house. From those windows is one of the loveliest views I have seen in my life. One can see the meadow, with its lush, tufty grass, a deep, deep green. Far ahead, one can see the meadow end, a small dip in the earth that holds the lake. The lake is stunning. In the early mornings, it twinkles in the sunlight, almost with a layered humour. The water is the same colour as the sky, usually a dull, blue-grey. I don’t understand why some people dislike storm coloured skies. I can’t imagine living without these skies. They remind me of an ocean. The clouds shifting like waves, the gold of the sun peeking out from time to time like pirate’s gold. The lake reflects this beauty, and I can’t understand how it can capture it all- the vastness, the trembling clouds, the glow emanating through their grey, murky depths.
There is always a breeze- to me, the breeze always sounds like a singer. Coco disagrees, saying the breeze sounds more like a flute. It has a tune, most days, and we like to whistle along, from our study table by one of the nest’s windows. It seems, sometimes the wind doesn’t like the chorus we add to its lilting melodies, and then it commands the skies to become ash grey and tear open, ripped right in the centre, the melodies giving way to roaring rains.
That's when we shut ourselves up in the nest, just like birds. Me and Coco sit on the bed, a small, creaky box with cotton stuffed bedclothes that have been patched over multiple times. Coco gets herself a book from the mahogany bookshelf in the corner and leans back into the multi-colored pillows. As I was saying, the inside of the nest is very different to the outside. There are small, yellow-orange lights that give off a warm glow, lining the edge of the red roof. The roof has a large, round window right in the middle of it, and from the bed, one can see the stars. When it rains, mist seeps into the house, and we have to double-lock the windows. The lining of the inside of the nest is soft wood that can catch mould easily. Opposite the study table, we have a small kitchenette; a small stove and cupboard, one that has milk, broccoli and instant soup on some days, tomatoes, carrots, lettuce, pasta and cheese on others.
The bookshelf I mentioned earlier is from our mother, as is the kitchenette. The bookshelf is our prized possession, the largest item in the nest. It looks regal, majestic in its rose carvings, magical with our trinkets on it. Shells, pictures, flowers, watches and a globe, all line the top shelf. The second and third shelves contain books; stories of other countries, other lands, other people. Me and Coco also have stories. Stories to tell, stories of ourselves. The stories on the shelves never catch even a speck of dust, so treasured, so precious. That’s why we live in the nest. To live in the stories - write them too.
At night, once the rain dies down, and me and my sister are tucked into the lumpy blankets, we stare out the window in our roof. “We can see beyond the walls of the nest”, Coco says, “beyond the stars.”,I nod. We can see everything that's so far away.
So the birds go to sleep, under the stars.
Tiana Prem Wig
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