Jagiya -
Do you remember the day we met?
That was when I knew.
When our eyes met for the first time, I was already yours.
That was our Day One.
Happy anniversary.
Saranghae.
I looked down at my watch to see the date, as my mind cast back to that day in April, when I’d dropped a box of cables in front of a K-pop artist, and his entourage. My cheeks warmed, even though the day was only mild.
“Bloody hell, where did that come from?” Mum’s voice shook me out of the memory as she walked in through the sliding doors.
“Kaiya’s fancy man,” Dad waggled his eyebrows in a way I found most distressing.
“Mmm, is that right?” Mum slid her gaze to mine, and her speculative look made my face heat even more.
“Special occasion?” She moved over to the brightly coloured spray of blooms and ran her fingers lightly over one of the delicate flowers.
“Today is the one year anniversary of the day we met,” I said, feeling inexplicably shy.
“Mum turned to look at me. “The day you met? Blimey, kid, you must have made some impression.”
I let out an involuntary snort.
“He calls her ‘jagy’” Dad proclaimed, stuffing his hands into his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet, as though supremely amused, which, judging by the smug grin on his face – he was.
“Jagy-what?” Mum frowned.
“Daaad!”
He laughed. “Sorry kiddo, but do you know how long I’ve waited for you to bring a boy home? Let your old man have a bit of fun, eh?”
“I have not ‘brought him home’.” I crossed my arms.
“What’s a ‘jagy’?” Mum turned to look at me. “Is it rude?”
“Ah, for fu-”
Mum held up a hand to cut me off. “Language!”
I tipped my head and closed my eyes. “Jagiya,” I corrected. “It means ‘honey, darling, baby’. There, happy now?”
“Immensely,” Dad said.
“Leave the poor girl alone, Ern,” Mum chided, even as she struggled to contain the smirk creeping at the corners of her lips.
“Couple of children,” I muttered, before turning on my heel and taking myself outside. I’d barely gotten halfway across the lawn before I heard the pair of them cackling, the sounds of their mirth following me down the garden path.
I stayed there for a few minutes, just observing the way the bees moved industriously from flower to flower, doing what they needed to do before moving on in a meticulous, but unhurried way. Purpose.
When I was a kid, my mum had a weird saying she had used every time I would get into a strop. I’d stamp my little foot, and she’d almost always follow up by saying, “if you’re going to act like that, you can go into the garden and eat worms.” There was a whole song, but I couldn’t really remember it now. But she’d sing it to me, and my little tantrum would down.
I heard her now, walking up the stone path that crossed the garden, her footsteps slow.
