something in the water
There is a place without darkness and without fear. There is a place where children smile with wisdom as they pass ice pops between sticky hands; there is a place where women lie naked in fields together and still feel beautiful; there is a place where men do not fight but sit side by side with one pot of coffee between them and lumber they know they can lift together. There is a place where your only expectation is to live your dreams and where thinking of yourself is not selfish, because everyone else is thinking of you too. There is a place with no shame.
I live here, in this place. My house is the blue one there, with the sleepy chimney and the singing chimes. I have a yard in the back, with no fence. There are no fences here, my grass is everyone's grass. I own the wood and stove and tiles that make my house, but I do not own the earth underneath it. Nobody owns the earth, except the sun. There are no fences - not even around the swimming hole. When babies are born, their mothers carry them into the pool and hold their baby's head above water while their little feet kick below. "See, no place to crawl," their mothers say. All the mothers have sweet voices, like nightingales. "So please be careful when you play around here with your brother." And the babies are always careful, because they love their mothers.
I am not a mother and I have never kissed a baby's forehead in freshwater. Sometimes I help one build a mudcake on the bank as their older siblings swim, but mostly I am alone. Today I sit on my front steps and listen to my windchimes. I have a box in my lap, I am staring in it. Some children in their underwear are picking forget-me-nots from the ground around my house, to decorate their mudcakes with.
"Hello," says a small one with five flowers in each hand.
"Hello," I say.
"What are you looking at?"
"My box."
"Why?"
"I like what's inside it."
"What's inside it?"
I look at her for a long time. Then I tilt the box so she can see.
"What is it?"
"It is ugly."
"What is it?"
"It is dead."
She does not understand.
"It is a flower."
"It doesn't look like a flower."
"Well it is."
"Why does it look like that?"
"It didn't use to look like this. It used to be beautiful."
"Why do you still look at it?"
"Because I still like it."
"What?"
"Because I miss him."
"Who's him?"
"Someone I miss."
"Is it because you miss him that the flower looks like that?"
"No, it looks like that because it has stopped growing."
"How?"
"It was ripped from where it belongs. You ask too many questions."
The child looked at my face. Then she ran back to where everyone was still picking flowers. I watched as she turned her back to the group and tried to plant the flowers she pulled back into the ground. It was too late of course. Maybe she won't be here to see them wilt tonight, maybe she'll keep living like the rest of them, ignoring anything broken in a place where there is enough to be happy for, but one day she'll know. One day she'll see the flower that has died on top of her mudcake before anybody had a chance to eat it, before she had anybody to eat it with, or before she could bring him to want to share it with her. And then she'll know.
I live here, in this place. My house is the blue one there, with the sleepy chimney and the singing chimes. I have a yard in the back, with no fence. There are no fences here, my grass is everyone's grass. I own the wood and stove and tiles that make my house, but I do not own the earth underneath it. Nobody owns the earth, except the sun. There are no fences - not even around the swimming hole. When babies are born, their mothers carry them into the pool and hold their baby's head above water while their little feet kick below. "See, no place to crawl," their mothers say. All the mothers have sweet voices, like nightingales. "So please be careful when you play around here with your brother." And the babies are always careful, because they love their mothers.
I am not a mother and I have never kissed a baby's forehead in freshwater. Sometimes I help one build a mudcake on the bank as their older siblings swim, but mostly I am alone. Today I sit on my front steps and listen to my windchimes. I have a box in my lap, I am staring in it. Some children in their underwear are picking forget-me-nots from the ground around my house, to decorate their mudcakes with.
"Hello," says a small one with five flowers in each hand.
"Hello," I say.
"What are you looking at?"
"My box."
"Why?"
"I like what's inside it."
"What's inside it?"
I look at her for a long time. Then I tilt the box so she can see.
"What is it?"
"It is ugly."
"What is it?"
"It is dead."
She does not understand.
"It is a flower."
"It doesn't look like a flower."
"Well it is."
"Why does it look like that?"
"It didn't use to look like this. It used to be beautiful."
"Why do you still look at it?"
"Because I still like it."
"What?"
"Because I miss him."
"Who's him?"
"Someone I miss."
"Is it because you miss him that the flower looks like that?"
"No, it looks like that because it has stopped growing."
"How?"
"It was ripped from where it belongs. You ask too many questions."
The child looked at my face. Then she ran back to where everyone was still picking flowers. I watched as she turned her back to the group and tried to plant the flowers she pulled back into the ground. It was too late of course. Maybe she won't be here to see them wilt tonight, maybe she'll keep living like the rest of them, ignoring anything broken in a place where there is enough to be happy for, but one day she'll know. One day she'll see the flower that has died on top of her mudcake before anybody had a chance to eat it, before she had anybody to eat it with, or before she could bring him to want to share it with her. And then she'll know.