Crying Spirit

Kasimma

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You’ve been shown.

Just look at you! Yes, you. Don’t even incur a slap by looking around as if you’re confused. Your senses are very much intact. Look at you, sitting on Dollar Tree’s cold ground, beside the opened fridge, breathing frosty air. The smallest bowl of ice cream sits like a lover beside you. Aren’t you cold in that thin T-shirt, thin baggy jeans, thin body? You are! Don’t lie. See your veil of flesh blanketed by goosebumps, making it look as if you’re wearing a colony of ants. Your head should be bowed in shame, but no. You prefer to keep your head high.

Two things don’t lie.

One: a heart in love. When you’re in love, your heart does not lie about your lover. If your heart tells you they’re cheating, know ye that they are cheating. Say what … your heart will what …? It’s like something is wrong with you. Why will your heart tell the story? Are we lovers? Have you not been warned not to incur a slap? Better keep those thoughts shut. What did you say? You did not steal it? You were only “borrowing” it? Borrowing from who? A friend or a foe? Does this look like your father’s shop? Does your father even own a shop? Pscheww!

Two: the eyes. The eyes are the telescope to the soul. Your eyes, as blue as berries, seem to be pregnant with an explanation. They tell the story like a movie on rewind …

You’re sitting on the cold floor, the fridge opened, the smallest bowl of coffee-flavored ice cream sitting beside you like a lover. The slap shows your butt to the ground. The man is slapping you again. Your hand is rushing into your pocket and popping out with the ice cream. The man is slapping you. The cashier runs over, shouting, I knew it! I knew it! People are gathering. He is grabbing your shoulder, pressing hard, both of your voices “louding.” He is shouting at you. People are watching. He is pointing at your pocket, approaching you. You are looking at him, raising your hands in surrender as if to show him you’re doing nothing. The man is turning abruptly, asking, what did you just do? You are opening the fridge, grabbing the smallest bowl of ice cream, throwing it in your pocket. He is turning away. You are concentrating on the fridge, your fist under your jaw, your eyes throwing glances at the menacing man. The man, whose arms resemble stone on top of stone, is holding an empty shopping basket, staring at something on the shelf beside the fridge. You are standing by the fridge. You are strolling around the shop, your hands in your pocket. The cashier is picking up her phone. You are walking past the cashier. You catch the cashier’s eyes looking at you, at your chest, squeezing her eyes and her lips. You are entering the shop.

You sit on the cold floor, deaf to all the sounds. The veil of shame shifts from your eyes. Worry rushes in and sits. The lenses of your eyes reveal a dark, unkempt room. A woman sits beside an iron bed, sobbing. A little boy, maybe ten, lies on the bed, a blanket covering his chest down to his feet. You’re on the other side of the bed, holding his hand, looking at him. There is a smile on your lips, sadness in your eyes. You raise his frail hands to your lips and kiss them. You rub his shaved head. Tell him everything will be all right. He smiles. He says he wants tacos. You say Taco Bell is too far. He says he wants coffee ice cream. You tell him no kind of ice cream is good for him. He says he will be dead soon anyway. You look at your mother. Her face is buried in her hands, tears slithering down her arms. You tell your brother to please wait for you. You promise to be back soon with his ice cream. In your rush, you forget the pothole in your room. You strike your foot on it and wince. You limp out of the room. You look around the sitting room as though you’re looking for someone or something. All you find is poverty. You shake your head and go outside. You block the sun’s rays with your hands, looking around the sandy compound. You find your father there, his back to you, his front to a tree. His shoulders are hunched. He’s staring at the tree as if the Titanic movie is showing there. You shake your head and head out. Yours is a crying spirit. No tear in your eyes, yet your spirit wails. You avoid the images of death. You do not avoid …

Your eyes shift. You jerk. You shut your eyes. You draw in a DEEP breath. You exhale and open your eyes. Fear has replaced worry. They draw blank, your eyes. There has to be something else. You feel it. Yes! I can see it! We see these things. He is standing beside you, your younger brother. He sits, curves his legs like a Muslim on praying ground, places his arm across your shoulder, and rests his head on your shoulder. You feel it.

You explode in tears.