Excerpted from Monsoons, Duality Press, 1999 Between Thunder and Lightning I laid eyes on you again last summer. One day. Some day. The sun was hot, washing over the cotton fields like rain. The air hung like velvet drapes, no breeze, and I sat on my porch fanning myself with an old green church bulletin with one hand, holding a glass of sweet tea in a clear cup with oranges printed on it in the other, when there I saw you, plain as day, sitting in the garden between my rows of tomatoes and cucumbers. First, I didn’t like to believe what I saw. Didn’t know what to make of you. You all curled into yourself like a turtle. Your hair was so long I thought it could have been your jacket, but when you shook your head up, and your hair fanned down across your shoulders and down your back, I saw that you weren’t wearing anything but skin. You crouched low, chest pressed against your knees, bits of green tomato leaves glowing against your skin. “Shirley!” I shouted. Jack heard me from inside the house. “Who you talkin’ to out there?” “No one,” I said. “Just myself.” But you were still there, looking at me with all the fire and spark you had when you were living. I’d know you anyplace, daughter. Anyplace. “Shirley.” This time I whispered. “Come on over here and talk to your mama.” But you didn’t move, except maybe to stretch out your leg, or to shield your eyes from the dripping sun. You arched your back against the tomato stakes, and I saw how beautiful your body was - young, tanned brown as Sunday biscuits, skin shimmering with sweat. “Mama love me.” That’s what you said to me. I can still hear it in my heart. “Mama love me.” You said it just like that too. Like a fact. Like something important I’m supposed to instantly know. “Mama does love you, sweet pea.” “Mama love me.” And you wrapped your hair around your face and hid your blue blue eyes from me. The red earth beneath your feet crumbled into hard chunks that became dust that floated up around you like a shroud. I remembered the day in June a few years back when you jumped into a creekbed that was too shallow and landed smack on your backside in that same red clay. Like to have tattooed that color on your flesh! Mmmm. Made me smile just to remember, lord. Made me smile. I heard the pipes squeak. Jack must’ve turned on the water in the house. That man was always running the water. He’d take perfectly clean dishes out of the cupboards just to have something to wash. Especially since you gone and left us, Shirley-girl. That man don’t know what to do with himself, so he does dishes. Drove me crazy, but soon enough I just learned to appreciate that someone else besides me was doing the dishes. I wanted to go inside and fetch him -- tell him he had to come outside and see his dead daughter sitting naked in the garden, but I wasn’t sure exactly how a person goes about starting a conversation like that. Thunder danced behind me. You looked up, waiting for the lightning. You never believed me when I told you that the lightning came first. When you were living, I’d sit next to you on your bed when it got cloudy and you could smell that first hint of damp coming from the west. “See, Shirley, storm’s coming. You can tell how far away it is by counting between the lightning and the thunder.” You were about eight that night we sat up and watched the storm, you all snug and comfy under your great-grandma’s quilt. “One, two, three...here that thunder now? That means the storm’s three miles away.” “Is that far?” you asked. “Yes, that’s far.” I said and stroked your silky hair. But three miles was barely a blip. You went where I couldn’t find you. Not ever. Not until now. The pine trees rustled me out of my memory. You cupped your hands over your ears so the thunder wouldn’t scare you. You always told me you could feel it rumble in the pit of your stomach. “Like when I eat too much chili, mama.” That’s what you said to me. Like too much chili. So hot, there on my porch that afternoon. My blue cotton dress stuck to my legs and arms and sometimes you looked blurry to me with all the sweat pouring into my eyes. Come to think of it, you looked blurry in life to me sometimes too --- always moving so fast, running from here to there, tracking your young muddy feet on my white carpet. Mmm. I like to think of you moving so fast. Tell me, how fast can you move now? You stood up in my tomato patch. How is it you’re here? I reached for you. I wanted to hold you in my arms again, smell the musky scent of your skin, run my fingers over your tangled hair. The wind pushed me back into my chair. Clouds covered the sun. I saw you, standing straight, hair whipping across your face, covering it until I could only see the tip of your nose. Oh, Shirley, honey, you don’t know how much I miss you. Walking around this house now, without you, I just wander most of the time. Make sure Jack’s fed and the cat’s fed and I’m fed. That’s about all, darlin’. Now that we don’t hear your giggling from the top of the stairs on Saturday morning. Now that we don’t give evil eyes to the little boys who picked you daisies with the roots still hanging from the stems. Now that we don’t have anyone to really look at but each other. Your daddy misses you too, sweet pea, but he won’t never say it. It’s just not his way. You got to respect that about a person. Your daddy and I are too young, child, to be broken like this. Lightning cut through the dark sky, and you froze, a startled kitten. I saw your lips forming the words, “One, two, three, four...” and then the rumble came, and you held your hands tight against your belly and closed your eyes. The night you died was stormy like this. Worse, actually. We were getting the tail end of a hurricane. When I looked out your bedroom window I saw trees bending every which way, but when I listened, everything was strangely silent. All I heard was the pounding of the rain, the growling of the thunder, and the raspy gasp of your breath. I held your hand as you lay in your bed, your body shivering with fever and cough that the doctor swore to me would break by dawn. “Pneumonia doesn’t get us anymore,” the doctor told me, handing me a bottle of penicillin, and I lapped up the rhythm of those words. I held your sweaty hand tight as I dared, and when the lightning broke the dimness of your room, I saw you whisper, “One, two...” and before you could say three, your breath rattled out of your dry lips and you left me. Your daddy and I buried your ashes in the backyard, next to Murphy, your very first puppy. I planted a cherry tree over top of you both, and I water it every day. Won’t that make you happy, Shirley, darling? To be resting under shade and pretty blossoms? I shook my head and rubbed my eyes, still unwilling to believe I saw you in front of me. My tears mixed with the first droplets of rain and I felt the steam of my breath hot against my open lips. “The storm is close, Mama,” you said, gripping the tomato stake. “Yes, baby,” I ran toward the garden now, not caring that the wind had picked up once again. Not caring that the rain pelted my body with hard cold drops. I fell on my knees, crushing some of my cucumbers. I opened my arms and this time you fell willingly into them. You covered my quivering body with your hair, and your tiny naked arms squeezed my neck tight. You smelled of patchouli oil. “Love you Mama.” “I love you, baby. So much.” I held you closer, wanting to absorb you into my flesh. Wanting to give you the air from my very own lungs. Lightning illuminated the yard, and I thought of those too bright too white searchlights those car dealers on Hawthorne Street always use. You clutched my hair and whispered, “One, two...” and left me, again, sitting in the dark, as the thunder broke me open at my ribs, and the rain poured in and washed me clean away. True Companion The old fortune tellers down on Grand Avenue wave their hands through incense smoke and say we are all born with death in the womb. Death is a journeyman. A compañero. A partner. When I think of death I think of eyes, soft brown eyes. I think of my skin wrapped in cotton blankets, you know, the yellow ones with duck patterns and satin edges. And then I think of a gentle burst of wind that comes up from the pit of my stomach to blow out the flame. I don’t see death as a visitor that comes to call once, sometimes twice, in a person’s life. I see death in my root chakra, hanging out, watching. Death reclines in my hip bones, in my womb, wraps himself in figure eights around my ovaries. Death moved in when I was eight years old. One day, no death existed. The next morning, I woke up in my pink canopy bed and saw him. He reclined on the white wooden footboard, one leg wrapped casually around the post, stroking an orange cat. “Good morning,” he said, smiling. I rubbed my eyes. “Hello.” “You’re a mighty pretty little girl.” I looked down at my Hollie Hobbie sheets. Not me. Straight brown hair. Glasses. A nose that turned up too far. I shook my head. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s a lovely day. Look how bright the sun is shining. It’s too late for you to be in bed.” I put on my glasses and I saw the sun peeking angles around the slate blue shade over my window. I smelled bacon and eggs coming from the kitchen. My stomach rumbled. I reached for my stuffed tiger with the chewed tail and pulled him to me. I put the tail in my mouth. “Don’t do that,” he said. “You don’t know where that’s been.” I did know where it had been. It had been in my mouth. But I pulled it out anyway, and rested my hands on the quilt. “Who are you?” He leaned his head back and laughed, and as he laughed, he stretched longer and longer until his torso was directly in front of me. “That doesn’t matter.” “Yes it does. To me.” “I’ve been called many things.” “I have to go to school.” “No school today.” “Yes, there’s school today. It’s Tuesday.” “Trust me. No school today.” I looked at the clock radio beside my bed. It was nine o’clock. Mom should have been in here already. The bus comes at seven-thirty. I’ve missed the bus. Now Dad’ll have to take me to school on his way to work. He’ll complain the whole way about busing. Except this time it would be my fault, not the bus driver’s, because I slept too long. “Where’s Mommy?” He turned pale as typing paper and returned to his original form on the bedpost. The orange cat in his lap slept. I couldn’t see the color of his eyes through his reading glasses. He wore a jester’s costume, with big clown shoes and a top hat. He would be a tall man, if he were a man, but he couldn’t have been more than a foot tall, even with the top hat. I rubbed my eyes. This was a very bizarre dream. Even stranger than the one when I saw the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood outside my window. No one believed I really saw him, but I knew I did. I had to go to the bathroom. “Where’s Mommy?” “I need you to be very quiet,” he said. “Why?” “You don’t want to bother your mommy now. She’s very busy.” “Doing what?” “She has things she has to take care of today.” “Who are you?” He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “That question again.” Tears pressed against my eyelids. My throat tightened. “You know who I am.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. I did and I didn’t. He smelled funny, like bologna that’s been in the refrigerator too long. “I want my Mommy,” “She’ll be here when she can. Right now she’s busy.” “I want this dream to be over now.” I put the tiger’s tail back in my mouth. “This isn’t a dream.” I heard a bird outside my window. I bet it was a robin. I saw the mama robin building her nest yesterday. Mommy told me robin’s eggs are blue with tiny speckles. “I want to see the bird.” “I’ll show you the bird in a minute. We can open up the shades and you can see a lot of birds. But first I have to make a deal with you.” The cat woke up and jumped off his lap. She looked like a tiny ball of orange dryer lint, but with big yellow cat-eyes. I liked cats. “What kind of deal?” I stared at the cat. “You have to open up your heart to me.” “Like Jesus?” He laughed. “I am more powerful than Jesus.” “Mommy says nothing is more powerful than Jesus.” He grimaced, his white skin reflecting gray. “I am.” I wrinkled my nose. “I’ve seen you before.” “Yes,” he stretched his arms out until they wrapped around me. They even wrapped around my tiger. My ears pressed against his heart. “Listen.” I heard rushing water, louder than when we were at the ocean right before the hurricane. I heard wind shouting. It sounded like crying. The noises hurt my heart. “Keep listening.” I heard the rumbling of the earth shifting and the shouts of the people falling and rising and falling again. “You do all that?” “I am all that.” The orange cat jumped on top of my tiger. “And more.” “Death,” I whispered. “Yes, child. Without me, there is no life. Do you see? That is why we must make the deal. It is important that you understand how critical this is.” “I know you,” I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to remember where I had seem this man, this clown, this creature. He smelled old. Like my grandaddy’s closet or my mouth after sleep. I saw my baby sister’s birth and I remembered I held her in the car on the way home from the hospital. That was it. Snuggled underneath the pink baby blanket, safe between my sister’s hands, I had seen this thing. He had been sleeping, fetal position, across her chest. I pointed him out to Mommy then, but she didn’t see him. “Yes,” he said. “I was there. I was born with her. Just like I was born with you. I don’t come for people, child. I come with them.” He released his arms and I fell back, limp, against the pillows. “Today, your father saw me again.” “Daddy!!” “Shhh! Be quiet!” I stuffed my tiger tail back in my mouth and swallowed my voice. “Your daddy can’t come right now. He’ll come back soon, but he had some things he had to take care of today.” “Daddy ---” “Child, this is between you and me. Most people, once they grow up, forget about me. They stop seeing me anymore. They stop believing in me. They ignore me and I hate that. Now that your daddy has seen me, he can’t ever forget me again. He can’t ever open his eyes to the life he was leading again. Nothing will ever be the same. Now, here’s the trick. I’m asking you to carry me with you.” He pointed to my lower belly and laid his hand across it. “Here. In your womb. I must live there.” I shook my head and pushed his hand away. “No! Go away! Mommy! I want my Daddy!” “He isn’t here. He can’t come for you every time you call him. Today, his appointment was with me.” “Is he OK?” The robin outside my window chirped. “Yes. But you must be my partner. You can save him and yourself. Let me be a part of your life. Then you will not fear my arrival at the end.” I remembered how sweet he slept, nestled between newborn fingers. I remembered the gentle rising and falling of his breath. The way he seemed to be a part of my sister’s cells. Her eyes opened on the way home from the hospital and she saw me, and she saw him, and she patted his tiny head with he tiny finger and smiled. She had recognized him too. “If I let you do this, then what?” The cat jumped into my belly button. It tickled. “You live in balance.” I thought of Daddy. Last night we had steak and jello for dinner. When I fell asleep he was watching Chico and the Man on TV. I could talk to him about this when he comes back home. I didn’t want him to be scared. “OK,” I closed my eyes. Death stretched out to me, took my head in his hands and kissed my forehead. “Do not be afraid. I am with you always.” And as I lay in my childhood bed, he spread my legs apart and slid inside. I hardly felt a thing until I put my hands on my belly and felt his pulse through my skin. Death moved in when I was eight years old. He rides in the car with me, goes to work, goes to bed, laughs, cries, and makes love with me. I see him with others, on their shoulders, whispering in their ears. I see him stretching out his arms to stop a car inches before it hits a baby. I see him everywhere, except in cemeteries, where nothing breathes at all but the grasses covering the soil of the earth where the heartbeat of life always pulses .