{rekindle} | basil + meira | [dee]

[ミSailor彡]

BASIL 'BUBBLES' ARTOIS

    The Artois Shop has been my life for as long as I can remember. Our regulars have affectionally nicknamed the place, "Arty's." I've always loved that nickname, loved our regulars, loved my work. My passion for this place became that much more real the day it burned down. I've never felt so dedicated to something until I rebuilt it with my own two hands, with the help of our fabulous customers, of course. My family and I owe everything we have to our customers. They took it upon themselves to take that step across the line from just customers to lifelong friends. My day wouldn't be complete without seeing them all come in for a meal or for some supplies for their next fishing trip. They even supported me in my endeavor to create my own clothing line, buying the dresses I made for their wives and daughters, and even purchasing my custom-made fishing caps for themselves. I never feel alone here, I never feel ashamed here. This shop feels more like a home to me and my parents than our actual home does. We spend the majority of our hours here, happily, might I add. Some people don't enjoy their day job, but I think it's safe to say I'm the luckiest girl in the world because I truthfully enjoy every second of it. 

    Today has been hectic as ever. Along with our regulars, it seems as though we've attracted some new customers during this lunch rush. Like always; father mans the front, mother cooks in the back, and I float between the two giving help where it's needed. We have what I would call a spectacular relationship, and great chemistry when it comes to the business. All of us know what to do, when to do it, where to do it and how to do it. Father calls orders out through a little window that leads to our kitchen and mother diligently readies the dishes.

    As I help mother prepare a few bowls of our fish soup, I hear another voice that's not my fathers call through the window. "Bubbles! Don't forget I like my soup with extra potatoes!" I laugh, knowing that voice belongs to Pappy, one of our most senior regulars. He comes in everyday, without fail, and always orders the same thing. Our prized fish shop with extra potatoes. He's a starchy kind of man. "Right-o, Pappy! You know I could never forget!" The most rewarding part is watching people leave with smiles on their face as they rub their full bellies. As lunch time passes, the shop slowly empties out until there are just a few people left browsing merchandise that lines the shelves across the walls. Without having to say two words to each other, we all continue on to our off-rush duties. Mother starts washing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen, father sweeps before running off to the office to calculate lunch rush sales, and I keep an eye on the front while restocking shelves. The shelf where we store my hand-made fishing nets looks a little low, so I grab a box from the back and neatly stack them accordingly. I let out a content sigh right before hearing the bell that hangs atop the entrance door ring, signaling someone has come in. I turn around cheerfully, hands still full with fishing supplies.


"Hello, welcome to the Artois shop! Can I help you with something?"

[ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ]

“Artois Shop”

My lips form the words as the name “Artois” jogs a foggy fragment of my memory. I remember that name from my childhood, a sunnier part that I have mostly forgotten since we gave the ocean my Mama. A little girl about my age with skin much like Mama’s was running through the house with me, laughter echoing through the narrow halls of my small house. The sound of feet pattering on the wood that I can no longer here echoes through my ears as if I was hearing the sound again. It is a distant memory now, but for some reason, this memory is as clear to me as spoken words had once been a long time ago.

But it cannot be the same name. It is merely a coincidence, a coincidence that my employer instructed me to go to this shop to pick up some fishing supplies. However, more memories hit me as my childhood that I had tried to suppress the last time I saw the ocean lap at Mama’s hands and feet and I remember Papa kissing Mama on the cheek as he told her that he had to pick things up from the shop. Did he ever say the name? I don’t seem to recall, but that memory is connected to this shop, I just knew it. I would hold his hand as my small legs tried to keep up with my Papa’s long strides. They had stopped at this spot, feet together just like my feet are doing right now, and I had looked up at the sign just as I am doing at the moment. But the sign looks different, it’s farther away, and I am not hold Papa’s hand but rather a piece of scratch paper that contains two words.

I look back down to confirm that the name on the shop matches the name on the piece of paper before I let out a sigh and wonder why my memory has been jogged like this. Once I open the door though, I am almost certain that my mind is playing tricks with me and that this shop is not the one from my childhood. I recognize nothing. There is man who is talking through the window and although the back of his head looks vaguely familiar, I cannot see his face and I shake my head, knowing that I must be going crazy to believe that I do know him. After all, I have never been to this store before. There are people shouting, something about soup, and I turn away as I focus on the shelves to find the supplies I need.

My intention of being here is finding some rope; I had run out earlier this week and as much as I hate admitting it, I rely on rope more than most fishermen are supposed to. Papa would always tease me and say my Mama was the same way: had to make sure everything was secure before she committed to something. I have to fight back the tears before I can think any more about my Mama; there would be no point in crying in this store. But as I walk along the shelves, my eyes seem to be glossing over and I can’t make out what is what. A grimace starts on my face before I swallow it down and look around for someone who works here. There is someone at a shelf and it looks like she is putting things on to the shelf. She wouldn’t be doing that if she was a customer, right?

I walk over to her and tap on her shoulder. “Excuse me,” the words sounding faint in my own ears. “Can you help me…out?” I can’t help but furrow my eyebrows as I see her face and wonder if my earlier suspicions are really true. The girl in front of me…is she really the girl that I barely remember from my childhood? Bubbles, I think to myself for some strange reason. I shake my head quickly, hoping that I haven't stared too long, but the thought still lingers in my mind.

[ミSailor彡]

BASIL 'BUBBLES' ARTOIS
"who really needs the past

                                                 with the allure of something new?"

    As tedious as restocking shelves may seem, I actually enjoy the act. Being the one in charge of neatly stacking and hanging each handmade this-and-that along the walls of our shop fills me with pride. It's almost like my own personal art gallery. Lining the walls with my own forms of artwork, whether it be the clothes I've diligently worked through countless nights to create or the fishing supplies I've whipped up over time. Making these things are a second nature to me now, the act consumes me. It's not just something I personally enjoy, but knowing I'm taking a lot of the workload off of my parents, who aren't getting any younger, is a sense of accomplishment all in its own. 

    When the original Artois Shop burned down, I've never seen my parents so devastated. There was only one time, when I was younger, that I've seen my mother that upset. I hardly remember that day, but I do remember asking her why she was crying. She told me I was too young to understand, that she'd tell me when I was older. Now that I am older, I haven't asked about it. I'm always afraid to reopen old wounds, and I don't want to see her cry again. Father had mentioned in relevant conversations about a dear friend that they had lost, but I always felt it was out of line to ask who. Father has always been a little more overbearing, as opposed to mother who normally keeps her feelings to herself. Maybe one day I'll ask father, but the right time needs to present itself. 

    As I hang up the last of the nets, I feel a light tap on my shoulder. My reaction rehearsed, almost mechanical, I turn around cheerfully and am almost taken back by the familiarity that this girl in front of me brings. Realizing my face has taken on a confused look, I fear I might scare her away. So, I return to my rehearsed lines and smile cheerfully as she says quietly, "Excuse me. Can you help me... out?" She seems quiet and meek, her eyes going from me to the ground as she speaks. Her youthful face leads me to believe she's near my age, but why does she look so familiar. I feel like I should know her, like I've known her for a long time. Her familiar face is comforting and brings back memories of my youth, but I can't quite place her. 


"Of course, my love! What can I help you with?"

[ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ]

The other girl responds with a cheery attitude and a voice that doesn’t seem like she is shouting but is loud enough for me to hear. Maybe it’s her tone that makes it easier for me to see what she is saying or maybe I have just gotten better at reading lips. Either way, she seems attentive to me and it is so surprising that I can barely squeak out the word, “Rope”. I shake my head to get myself back on track and the paper in my head crumples slightly as I readjust my stance. “I need some sturdy rope for netting and to hold the boats. Do you have any that is multipurpose?” I hardly expect the store have any sort of rope like that. If they do, I could only imagine the price tag on that, but it so handy I am willing to consider it as an investment. Then again, I do go through rope quickly…

I shake my head to let her know I take my words back. “Sorry, maybe not that. I’m looking for rope for netting. Something strong yet flexible.” I quickly look at the shelves to see if I can get myself back into buyer mode, but my previous thoughts are so engrained that I know I have to ask. I have to delve into that sunnier part of my memory to find the answer. “I’m sorry, I hope you don’t find this strange.” Of course she’s going to find this strange. Who would ask a question like this? “There was this girl I had known when I was really young. The name of the shop seems so familiar and—,” I take a deep breath in, hoping that my words are clear. “Would you happen to know Bub—I mean, Basil? I believe her name is Basil Artois.” I cringe at I think about how I had just dove in to the question. I have never been comfortable outside of my mind beside with my father and my doctor, and it is difficult for me to communicate with people now.

But the question would have itched at my brain if I hadn’t just asked her the question. Why do I want to know so bad? Why do I want to explore a part of my history that I thought had died with my Mama? Perhaps it’s because I want to reconnect with a happier time, to bring happiness back into my life after I had let it go for so long.