sesquipedalien

“Hello!”

“Hello.” The voice was so small.

“How are you, love?”

“Fine.”

“How were the lessons?”

“Good.”

I leanded forward.

“Did you eat?”

“Yes. A little.”

“What did you eat?”

“Food.”

“You having fun?”

“Mom?”

“Yes love?”

“Can I tell you the truth?”

“The truth? What is it love?”

Her eyes were getting wet.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

A pause. I imagined his little face, phone pressed to his right ear, left hand fingers twisting the cord, eyes starting to water.

“Mom? There are only two things you can do.”

“What?”

Her voice was cracking.

“Mom? Can you come here? Or can you send me a ticket to come back?”

She wiped her eyes gingerly.

“Oh now, come on love. You can’t ask for that! You have so many people there! How can you miss us?”

“Mom?”

His tears spilled. Shattered against the air. I stared at the little box.

“Mom? I miss you all so much. I can’t stand it. I want to come home. Please? Please Mom? Please?”

She was sobbing inside.

“We miss you too love. But you have others there! Don’t think of us.”

“But I can’t help it. I want to come home. I don’t want to live anywhere. Please?”

My mother let the tears fall.

“We’ll see love.”

He sobbed.

And sobbed.

I got up. The image of him was terrifying me.

He sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed.

“Please Mom? Please?”

Often, I find myself staring at others in earnest. After I realize, I chide my nature and look away.

I used to sit on a long red bench. Never in the middle. Always to the left for some reason. I’d sit there and watch everyone play.

The see-saw, up and down. The swings, legs moving in and out, in and out. It was always in and out… it never occurred to me as back and forth. The merry-go-round, girls sitting, fingers curled around the painted metal, while the boys ran around and around to make it go, dust and wood scrapes rubbing against their soles, then hop on, the girls squealing, hair flying. The hopscotch cornet, a group of girls hopped everyday, arms lifted slightly for perfect balance. Ponytails as little bunny rabbits… The jump rope sliced the air, feet thumping in faultless rhythm until the string caught them… and the girl walked to the back of the line, hand clenched. Oh! The monkeys. Monkey bar monkeys. Racing each other. Laughing. Checking their hands for blisters. Look… squirrels! Squirrels collec-

I am blocked.

“What are you doing child?”

“Watching, Mrs. G.”

“Enough! Go play!”

I smiled, like always. Like every day. “Ok.”

I caught her shaking her head at me once.

And then ran away…

Why is it so impolite to stare?

When it’s so beautiful?

So Beautiful?

We are sitting on the porch swing. The sun is already gone, the last crisp strands of color lingering in the cross stitched sky… planes were ample needles when it came to that chore.

“What shall we make?”

“Whatever you think is right.” I shrug.

“Three types of shaak” She stared at the fence, confirming the curries. “Okra, peas with potatoes, and eggplant.”

“Okay.”

“Two sweets.”

“Mmm… should be good enough.”

“Two farsan.” Referring to the equivalent of American side dishes. Her eyes are squinting towards the pomegranate bush.

“Fair enough.”

“Rice, soup.”

I nod.

“And salad.”

My head jerks. What? What did she say? Did I hear her right? Salad? I lost all interest in watching the uniquely shaped bug crawling at the edge of the cement block.

“Sal-lhud?” I repeat.

“Yes.” She turns, her bespectacled irises peering at me in curiosity. “Did I say something wrong?”

I laugh. “Sal - lhud” I laugh again.

“Suh-laad” she fixes herself. “Don’t worry… I’m not becoming Americanized…” She grins self consciously.

The stitches in the sky disappear.

American sky.

Suhlaad…

I never said I would stop devouring my chocolate drops…

Thank you all for lavishly handing me a million more ;)

I often reprimand myself telling these things.

Night takes a hold of me and spins out intricate silks of delicate memories and moments. Almost as gossamar as a web is.

I wake up in the morning and shake my head. Oh God. What have I written?

What worth is there in these stories? What gems do they see?

Am I asking for pity? (In truth, perhaps yes. In want, oh please! Pity? Of all things, pity should hold me up!? Ack!!)

I wish I had more to think of than my life.

Or perhaps something other than life and its opposite.

Unfortunately, originality was taken a long time ago.

By Time itself.

So here I am doomed to sit, spoon feeding myself with these poignant pieces of chocolate drops…

That taste like nothing in the mind

but sweet.

The water slides between my fingers. I watch her tear open the brown plastic sack. We never buy those. I squeeze out the moisture droplets from the rag. The counter reminds me of the stores.

I have a habit of looking at floors and ceilings. As a child, I’d follow my mothers footsteps, stepping only on the green tiles, or if it was a sunny day, the white ones.

They started using the floors for advertising…

The thrill! I was on an ice cream cone. Now inside a ziplock bag. I tickled the Pillsbury doughboy with my toe. I sometimes wish they still had them…

But the candy lane…

I never was a candy person. Chocolate, though, lures me.

I passed huge gummy bears, rainbow lifesavers, fruity gum strips… and then stopped in my happy, childish skipping world.

M & M’s.

My mother turned the lane… I never asked. I knew the answer. Why should I ask?

The water is still running and I shut it off. She pours from the large bag into smaller clear ones. They bulge as her fingers gently ward off the excess air and press the seals shut. I feel a bead of water on the tip of my pinky. It falls.

She looks up. Smiles.

“Open!”

I brush away a hair. Shyly open my mouth. Her fingers are so long… like mine. It’s green. She aims. It lands.

My mouth closes.

The fingers touch my cheek.

“You always loved M & M’s.”

The counters are so shiny…