Another Week, One More Reason To Respect Good Times.

Pishi, as she curls against me, little pink tongue barely slicing the break of her Cheshire smile, her unannounced presence while sleeping, her unconscious squeak while stretching. Some wind, carrying with it “Saharan Dust” that sits like a thousand tiny wasps on the surface of the ocean, blanketing the distance with brown haze. Reggie’s skinny arms that reach around our waists, unsolicited, without a single word. NPR podcasts played to the vibrating scrub against all the dust of the apartment. My mama’s voice through the phone, especially after a hard day but most especially after a good one. Mr. Winston cursing his truck as he beats it into submission with some wrench, but with a brief sigh as we pass by. The smell of chicken frying that Primrose has cooked for some children, the same ones who are playing steel pan with Mr. Sam, the same ones for whom the boys on the block are raising money for a trip to Trinidad by washing cars. The sound of the sun poking through Rasta Man leaves that are green and flipping like dolphins and shading some men who are saying to us, “You just brightened up this tree,” except it’s not a line. Blue. Green. Chartruse. Lime. Velvet Brown. Stone Gray. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Cocoa. Julie’s red shirt peeking over the window of her rental car, which is stopped momentarily on the hill at our doorstep as she hails us up to say hello. A crimson fleece blanket over my shoulder while a mosquito silently eats me. Seven children, including one Maia, drumming on the plastic table of the community center to a song,“O Friend, in the garden of thy heart plant naught but the rose of love.” Ire. Agitation. Impossibility. Grating of nerves against skin and reality and hoping that when I get up from the bed the day won’t possibly be as bad as I’m thinking it will be. Barberry leaking out of aluminum serving pans and onto the plastic plates of Rotary members and friends who are celebrating Africa one Saturday night. A pea green sequin catching the gleam of a light bulb. Nasim resting a hand on my back while the boat sits up and down, up and down. A million adolescent words spoken at high decibel while Mario bounces on the computer screen and somebody laughs for the umpteenth time about nothing in particular. The rubber track marks of B-boy’s bike where he has stopped abruptly on Mekai and Machoy’s hill to deliver some keys to the locked-out residents. Coffee. Chai. Limeaid. Bret and Jermaine and their animal sweatshirts and “Hiphopopotamus vs. The Rhymenocerous.” Too many hard feelings. Lots of epiphanies. Forgetting all the epiphanies. Chuck reassuring me that things will be better soon. A big full
moon, which means another vegetarian potluck at the Buddhist Temple that I won’t be attending. Laundry soap. Capri-suns. Tara. Cynthia. Max. Dino. Dongo. Screen. Track. Puff/Okino. Puff/Okino’s Mama. Rheal’s casual white tee slipping past us on the street with promises of return. A rescheduled mastectomy turned lumpectomy. Dreams of many things and nightmares of few things. Sweat. Quieter, darker evenings. And, as always, jokes by the pound.

Bret and Jermaine.