Once upon a time, in a far away place, where no human had ever set eyes upon, lay a small strange island. The island was in the middle of the ocean where no one had ever passed, where no one can ever reach. Everything was white in that island. The sand, the hills, the grass, and ever the ocean, the waves turned white before touching the land.

No one knew where the island was, no one had ever seen it, yet everybody knew of its existence. That’s why it was called the Legend Island. And in legends and stories, it was called the White Island.

There was a small village right beside the ocean. The people of the village were poor, hardworking, and loyal. They didn’t know what sorrow was, except when the time for one of them to part with the others came. They bid them farewell silently and mourned the departed for 7 days and 7 nights. Then they went back to their lives, living peacefully, getting on with their work, and caring for their children.

Sometimes, late at night, the people of the village would hear a gentle boyish voice singing softly to the moon, with mourning tones, and although the singing was in a language no one knew, it was tender and comforting. It was said that it was a dead language that was once used long ago when people knew how to smile. Some other times, another voice joined the singing, a man’s voice, smooth like silk, and slithering like velvet, soothing to the troubled hearts.

The singing brought peace on the land and sleep to the little infants. No one knew whose voice it was, or from where it came, but the wise elders of the land would shake their heads hushing the youngsters and sorrowfully saying, ‘It comes from the Legend Island, the White Island of Mourning’. And everybody believed them. After all, that was what the Wise One said, and the Wise One was always right.

The children called her the Grandmother, but the adults called her the Wise One. When people got old and neared their time of departure, they started to call her again the Grandmother. They always claimed that she was there when they were children, and they had called her the Grandmother then too, that she lived even when their parents and grand parents were children, and they have all called her the Grandmother as well. The adults would just scoff at their old parents and say that the elderly have just cracked and that no one could live that long, even if it was the Wise One. Still, they knew it was true, for deep in their hearts, they saw it.

Every day, the Grandmother would come out of her hut by the sea early in the morning, take her place in front of the hut and look to the east, waiting. The people of the village would pass by her, greet her, and go on their ways shaking their heads. All of them knew that she was waiting, waiting for the White Island.

Many a warm summer’s day, the Grandmother would gather the children of the village around her to tell them her stories, stories of the sweet old times, of the times when people still knew how to smile. All the children, and some of the nearby adults, would hold their breaths listening to the grandmother, hoping that maybe, just may be, this time, she would tell them something about the White Island. With big pleading eyes they would look at her, but she just closed her eyes, and with a face full of wrinkles and a heavy heart, she would start in a soft voice telling them stories about a time when she was young, a time when she could still laugh and dance, a time that was no more. All her stories revolved around one a school, a school in a far away land, and a boy whose laughter made the nature sing, one boy who used to fly without wings, and a man whose heart bled everyday without shedding blood, a man who was dead for a long time while he was still alive.

In some of her stories, other people would be mentioned like the Man of the Moon. The children would tremble in anticipation when she mentioned the moon for it was on the nights when the moon was full that they hear the singing. And it was always peaceful signing, sad but peaceful. She said that they were songs of mourning, the inhabitants of the island were lamenting their lives and friends. They were calling for the Man of the Moon, pleading with his mother, the Moon and telling Her that they wanted him to return, that they were lonely and wanted to go back home. But the Moon always refused, for the man was Her child and She didn’t want him hurt again. The Moon enjoyed having Her child with her smiling and playing with his dog, remembering times that were no more.

The Grandmother never told them who ‘they’ were, but the children knew who was singing. It was the man whose hear used to bleed and the boy who used to fly without wings.

Whenever the Grandmother mentioned the island, the children would sit straight trying to hold onto ever word she said. One day she would caution the children not to make a lot of noise to disturb the inhabitants of the island, another day she would ask them to plead with the Moon to permit Her son to go back to the island. But she always told the children to wait by the sea, for she was sure that the day would come when the island would sail and come to the shore. When the inhabitants of the island are ready to reconcile with the world, when the Man on the Moon is ready to leave the Moon and to leave his dog, only then would the island start sailing to the shore.

But one day the Grandmother, after she finished her stories, looked around in the faces of the children who looked back at her in awe, waiting to hear more of what she had to say. That day, she looked each child in the face and told them in a hushed voice, that it was time. The time has finally come and there will be no more tears, no more mourning. The songs will be songs of joy, of reconciliation. It was the time. And the Grandmother smiled. The children gasped. No one had seen the Grandmother smile before, for she always seemed to be in mourning, no adult had ever smiled before, for they didn’t know how. Smiling was only for little children and they always forgot how to do it when they grew up. Yet, the Grandmother smiled. Her brown eyes flashed with happiness as she looked towards the sea. She got up from her seat and ran to the sea. Looking to the east, to where the White Island was said to be, and opened her arms wide as if to hug the world.

Then the Grandmother was no more! She was finally free. The people of the village buried her where her hut used to be, the nearest hut to the sea. They mourned her for 7 days and 7 nights. Then set a stone on her grave written on it:

Here Lays The Grandmother, The Wise One
She Lived For A Long Time Waiting For The WhiteIsland
When She Could Wait No More, She Sailed To Meet It
She Sailed On A Smile