I digest this vile feeling. These women touching me on this weekly appearance. Their arms extended, palms down, fingers bent, waiting. I pass through their arms like walking by a jail cell. In the rigid hallway is painted in perfect uniform, lines, squares, and triangles; but no circles. Gray, white, and black, course along the walls and floor, nothing else. Ornate vine-like lamps cling to the walls in perfect order, shining dimly on this day. This line begins outside my bedroom doorway. They have come. Once again, another seven days of me.
Who are they? Dozens of capable women erected in stature, hunched in desire, at my sides. New ones. same ones. Does it even matter? All brought here for me to choose, their destiny. We have no real money, but a bloodline respected and sought after. I mirror them, barely lifting my eyes, or even my head, in acknowledging their influence or their pitiful existence. I say they are pitiful not because they are, but their parental expectations have removed much of their true identity which embers in them somewhere. They are beautiful! They are more than they know or have ever heard! It is sad. They dare not lift their heads because of fear. I do not lift my head because of sickness. The vile feeling I get this sixth day as this “blessing” comes by me again. I am to choose, I am to have, I am to be what they want me to be. A king of kings.
As I walk down this long hallway, I repeatedly feel their icy fingers scraping, sometimes snagging, my coat, my shirt, and skin. It’s not them. It’s me. For their fingers are not icy, but my body chooses to receive them in that manner. I know it does, because I have felt fire. I admit, only twice I have felt fire.
Once, it was felt from my spinning redeeming father who grabbed my arm by the elbow. Why was I surprised? He wasn’t just a fire; he was a forest fire in an Amazon thick jungle that was thirsty for water after 15 years of drought. A forest glowing red, begging for the sweet freedom of rain to descend as it once had before. But oddly, most things are double in nature. As fire brings destruction; fire brings light, warmth, protection. To many more than I know my father has done the same. My father ignites me.
The second fire, was a fireplace fire. A mesmerizing candle glow at night, that embraced me. She was Gentle, nurturing, beckoning me to come closer to feed my slow moving blood. She folded me tightly in her arms and enveloped me in her space. She would wrap me in here thoughts and suggestions of love. It was sometime ago, appearing like a dream, a color faded memory like fermented Polaroid, with age, my view of it is now sweeter. I cherish those lost moments.
Color is my new favorite friend to whom I owe my happiness these days. I dread the seventh day. A yellow Sunday, a blue Tuesday, a red Monday, a green Thursday, a bright orange Friday, a deep purple Saturday. These colors are not attached to the day at all, in fact bright orange seems to caress most of my days as of late, almost edging in on the seventh. On all but the seventh, I find rest.
And so I smile. Not just a to show my teeth, but my body, my soul, and my mind. I smile deep to comfort me. This brief euphoria expands from within my seraphic intentions. I am happy. That second and most precious fire was, but not is. It has been six months now since the door closed, the lights dimmed, and her citrus perfume evacuated my life. I am whole, but only in memory.
R. R. is the second fire’s name. Again, I am whole, but only memory.
I write now with confused intentions of future possibilities. My true happiness evades, or rather, parades by me in the early mornings of my calm and clear mind. Ms. R. has sunk her anchor into my hand, my thoughts, and my eyes to be exact. The heaviest of anchors, that which is unconditional. Some may call it an anchor, but it feels more like fishing hook. Now, without her, it’s more like a large boulder on top of me. Will my flesh and cartilage give way in my stubbornness of non-movement, or will my frail mortal body give up way and move forward? Can I let her go? Should I let her go? She did not die. She did not hate me. She only caressed me. She is gone with no trace to follow, no hint to swallow. Six months now, is there meaning in waiting anymore? Oh to remember, remember; my strength is found in her. But do I wait, do I wait? Do we wait?
