Jensen Bush

was the name of the boy who lived next door to us just before we left Sri Lanka.  ’Jensen Bush’ actually was his first name (after George Bush Sr., no less), but everyone, mercifully, just called him Jensen.  And since he was the only boy my age who lived close by, we spent many Saturdays playing together.

Jensen was a little taller than me, had almost brown curly hair, and often wore a pair of light blue shorts and a matching button-up t-shirt when we would go out to play.  He had two older sisters and a mother and a father.  (I can’t recall his father at all though, since he was often overseas, working.)  The one other thing I remember, clearly, about Jensen was that he always seemed to be in trouble; someone in his family was always scolding him for this or that reason.  Mind you, considering that his idea of fun invariably involved tormenting his sisters or chasing the neighbourhood dogs, their frustration with him was often warranted.

Jensen’s family also owned a television.  Of the three memories I have of watching TV in Sri Lanka, the most vivid centres around a live-action episode of Spider-Man that I watched at Jensen’s.  I remember sitting on the cement floor of their living room, mesmerised as Spidey captured two thieves with his web and a sandwich.  (The sandwich was for bait, in case you’re wondering.  And yes, it’s all true.)  Aside from that, unfortunately, I have very few tangible memories of any personal interaction with Jensen.  We did have some more official interactions though, as a result of an agreement our parents made.

Given the political unrest in the country at the time, it was not unusual to be awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of shellfire.  Our two families agreed that it would be a good idea to build a bunker for protection during the raids, and decided on Jensen’s family’s yard as the place to build it.  So, one afternoon when I came home from school, I found everyone standing near a section of wall that separated our two houses, watching as one of my uncles and his friend tore a hole into the stone with pick axes.  The bunker was built in due course, and served to give our parents some much needed peace of mind.

I’m not sure how many times we used it.  One instance, however, does come to mind.  It was the middle of the night, and I was awakened by my mother who said that there was some heavy shelling nearby. We made our way to the bunker using torches [Read: flashlights.], and spent the rest of the night there.  It was a cold, dank place; really, just a hole in the ground, covered with wood and sandbags.  I remember looking at the wall nearest where I was sitting and noticing bugs crawling across the slick, brown surface.  Not exactly the most inviting place.  Once the sun came up, we made our way out and I was readied for school.  Life went back to normal.  As normal as it could be, at least.

When we immigrated to Canada, we lost contact with Jensen’s family, and until recently, whenever I thought of him, I’d also wonder if he was still alive.  A few months ago, however, we heard that Jensen’s oldest sister was getting married, and that the family, though still in Sri Lanka, was doing well.