Sprites

I am who you say I am. I do what you say to do. That is my premise in life, and discipline, obligation and obedience are my strongest traits. I clear the table when you ask. I clap my hands you when you say to do so. Even if it means dropping the plates I’m carrying. I am the mouse of the salon, the dragon of the kitchen, and the toad of my quarters. I slide and morph around corners, my disposition adapting to the footsteps coming my way. Madam, or Sitna as we call her, wears heeled shoes. Not necessarily high heels, but clickety ones. Sir, or Monsieur, shuffles his feet and changes into slippers when he’s home for the evening. And there’s the ever recognizable plimsole, with its occasional squeak and characteristically hurried steps. That’s the other me. The younger one they use for harder labour like climbing up ladders and carrying Monsieur’s suitcases to and from the car. I’ve been a member of this family for so long I’ve forgotten my own age. I am fiercely protective of them, just like the small print in my job description says.

There used to be many more footsteps in the household, reduced pair by pair to the four current occupiers. The daughter of the house has a limp. I used to hear her coming from far, on her trajectory between her room and the kitchen, her kitchen and the room. I would give her my legs to heal that lame foot. She comes home for holidays, and I invariably comment on her weight. She comments on my smoking habit. Both of us polite in the way we express disinterest in the other’s topic. She and I are as close as I’ll allow. There used to be more young ones in this house. The marbled floor was playground to the pitter patter of many a small foot; mischievous sprites who warmed my practical heart. The youngest presented a knee-height head of curly bleach blonde hair, the eldest had golden locks. No, that’s not accurate. The youngest was just a babe. And the daughter played with these young ones, I remember that too. But the daughter grew. And the household was left with but the echoes of those days. Nowadays, I take naps in the afternoons; the only time that I dream melancholic dreams. The kitchen settles after lunch and the dog is taken out for his walk. Sitna and Monsieur are out tending to their business. This is when the echoes are at their clearest. The front door shuts behind the last set of footsteps. And the shadows come to life. I lay on the bottom bed of the bunk I share with the other one, and listen. For the sprites to come back. The first sound is laughter - loud, raucous, boyish giggles. And with it, the others unfurl. There’s an argument, some forbidden swear words, a mother’s reprimanding voice, a dog’s playful bark. There’s running, changing directions, a pursuit, a broken glass, pulled hair and the thump of a body falling to the ground in surrender. There’s a breeze, a sob, a father’s haughty voice and a baby’s whimpers. A stronger wind blows this time, lifting my memories into upheaval. I hear another bark, this time not playful. I hear running again, and broken glass. A pursuit. A thump. A mother’s alarmed voice. A father’s injured sob. I hear crying and pleading. I hear gunshots.

I look down and find the babe in my arms again. Silent, faking death through her long blonde eyelashes. I feel her quickened heartbeat against my bosom. And her warm moist breath down my shirt.

I fall asleep on Thursday afternoon. For a short half hour, they relive and I live again with them. I’ll see them again on Friday afternoon, and Saturday afternoon and perhaps even Sunday. These sprites that I love so.