Crossroads and Unholy Water

Frozen Feel

 Frozen Feel I. Stroke The hand which had clutched the brake in the wrecked car, later at the morgue rested over his heart, yellowed and gray, in the frozen last gesture of a sworn witness to an unspeakable sight. He sees us now as he would have much preferred to— from great heights and with the remoteness of birds: “Take all the Gods out of the temple, you must worship me alone!” Parents are the true immortals. Bad parents too. I think of the agave plant—stiff, proud and blistering with narrow thorns as it burst forth out of the vast lawn. II. Passage A little girl, soft-skinned like a tree lizard, sits on her father’s lap. She nestles her head on his shoulder. Her long braid eases down his arm. She follows the contour of his ear with her thumb, supervises his face  with the satisfaction found in what has always been, always will be. Forty years later she sits in a church, looking at his corpse, seeing his face— now made-up—free from the white jaw strap which, at the morgue was bow-tied over his head like a limp Easter wrap. His features seem the familiar garden where she grew up. The frozen feel of his hand will be his last lesson to her. III. Walks At the time Father planted trees around our house he said, “this land wants life!” I walked then in yellow sandals over his newly terraced land. Chubby, sturdy legs. Fleshy buttocks like pomegranates swinging with delight and determination while the sea breeze added dust to my toes. Years later, always anxious during our silent walks at dusk, he repeatedly pointed to the same breadfruit tree, down by the river: “right there, you will bury me.”  Each time, now, that I walk to my father’s grave, what I recall first is the glee of those children, when out of ribbons from the discarded wreaths, they had braided bandannas which floated and tailed far behind their heads. They ran, looped and giggled in a footloose frenzy whose aim was to dare, touch the wooden cross and flee. IV. Bone It is not true the dead live in us. Seeing my father stored at the morgue, I now understand why dogs will steal away with bits of bone—tasted treasures they hold close in their jaws, can dig up days later, to sniff, lick, savour all over again. ...