Bonfire of the Vanities [open]
Dec 11, 2012 0:31:02 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Dec 11, 2012 0:31:02 GMT -5
Cachimorro Olentzero
Keep the earth below my feet
For all my sweat, my blood runs weak
We burn what we need to forget.
The lot of us, standing in a circle, collecting as the sun drips over the horizon. The little ones hurrying, pushing fast to gather the last scraps, all that they can carry draped over their shoulders—bits of twine, her dresses, his coats, boots, tablecloths and things. Memories of the good times, when things were plentiful and we could sit and laugh in the sun. Remember those summers, when we could all just sit on the porch and shoot the shit? He’d have the pipe in his mouth and let out a cough, watching the sun tumble yonder through the clouds while the cows just went about they business. And we’d look at one another and nod, sayin’ yessah, this the way it supposed to be. Because there weren’t nothing that could interrupt us then—this moment of electricity, of stillness—like a picture taken in my head, seein’ his smile and the smile of my brother. Hearin’ the laughter of my sisters in the kitchen, ready to run out to join us to see what life was supposed to be.
They place scraps of paper, ledgers, costume jewelry, and photos on the edge. The black and white faces of what’s past look back at me with dead eyes, and it’s all I can do to not let the lump come up and out of my throat. There’s another rush of feet as they scramble back inside, my brother leading the charge. They follow him good still, even with his brain not working so good. Zorion’s a good boy, old and strong, older’n me by a few years but not quite right in the mind. The mumps made him deficient, or so that’s what they said from the capitol. Made him had to be minded, on account of himself poking into trouble. Doesn’t really know what’s supposed to be said all the time, and sometimes he gets his hands on things he ain’t supposed to. But he’s got a good heart, when all is said and done. I watch him then as he takes the hand of little Leita, not much more than six, walking her gently back into the house. He hushes her when she complains that she’s getting tired—that she doesn’t so much want to do this as the rest of us do.
All in the pile, around the stones, collecting in the cloud of dust that I’ve ask them to set it in, for now. They know that I’m in charge, on account I’m the oldest next to Zorion. Been that way since last year, when my father went. I watch the dust swirl around in clouds collecting at the base of the rubbish heap. There’s a chance that it’ll rain, maybe at thunderstorm if we’s lucky. Would be good to feed the cattle, they’s been going thirsty in the last dry spell. Fall’s hard, winter’s harder still. Water’s gold enough for us, and we need to fatten up the calves if they gonna last until the spring. The udders underneath the steers haven’t been as full as they should be—ain’t been giving us milk the way they should. Makes it harder to sell to the grocer, to the capitol, to collect it and make it ready for consumption. With less to go around, we ain’t got enough for ourselves. Two meals a day, maybe, if we’s lucky. And clothes got to last all season. Runnin’ around barefoot ain’t no crime here, though I make sure my sisters have shoes on theys feet. ‘Cause they ain’t going to be catchin’ no colds while I watch ‘em.
Why we gotta do this, Cachi? Zorion stands near me after dropping a pair of floppy boots down in the pile. I look at the trash heap and say nothing, and he crosses his arms across his chest. I don’t expect him to understand, or the girls to neither. They all think I’m crazy to get rid of it all, since theys could use the boots or the gloves or the old stashes of ribbon. Could even have sold some of the scraps of metal for a dime, but I fobbed off from doing any sort of idea. They ain’t got half a mind to know what’s something’s worth around here. Rob you blind before you get a chance, besides, wouldn’t want to sell none of it anyway. So instead I decided it was time that we got rid of it all what good. You might think it’s a little harsh but I got my reasons.
When my father went—was tough times for the lot of us. Started off wearing black, the way you supposed to when someone in your family dies. And the neighbors all come to call and say how sorry they is because you lost your father, and they give you little cakes and pies and all the little things you don’t really need. Nothing that brings him back. Not a damn thing that makes the little ones smile, or the numbskull stop crying at night. Day in and day out they wear black, with little armbands and braids in their hair. And they sigh and look off into the distance—I can see little Leita right now, her little brown bob waving in the wind, staring past the stalks of weeds and up at the little waves of white above—wondering where he is now, like she can feel him in the distance. And she cries a little bit, because she doesn’t understand he ain’t coming back for her, that she won’t see him unless it’s in one of her dreams. And what am I supposed to tell her then, when she asks me how she’s supposed to feel happy again, always wearing a strip of black on her arm or in her hair.
So I told them we weren’t wearing black any more. And what was more, we weren’t going to keep anything in the house that reminded us of the two of them. We were gonna give them a sendoff like they wouldn’t believe. I woke ‘em up early in the morning, sleep still in their eyes and yawns stretching out their mouths—but I raced around tellin’ em we had to move, we had to go! And they got dressed and whipped up next to me like little soldiers, ready for the task. In the little light of the kitchen I told them what we’d be doing—taking anything that was Dad’s or Ma’s out to the fields. No more black, no more crying, no more thinking about what we didn’t need to think about. Because all of that wasn’t going to bring somebody back, no matter how much it hurt. And I wasn’t going to spend no more time looking back when we needed to look forward. And they was real quiet at first, looking at one another like what I’d said was in another language. And what you know, Zorion took off his little black band and put it in my hand. And I smiled, ready to get to business.
The last of the rubbish is my father’s white handkerchief, tossed atop the pile like a flag of surrender. And we get hushed, looking around at one another like something’s to be said. Because words are supposed to suck up the air in the silence, plug up the holes when there’s pain. Explain away what they don’t know—which is what they want from me. And I clear my throat and look to them—that I will tell them what they need to know, “We got to burn it away, make room for something new. Something good.” It’s as simple as that, getting them to stand back as I push forward, striking a match and catching the kindling down at the bottom of the pile.
The flames lick up toward the sky, lighting up the darkness that’s come. Twilight fades quickly into night, and the smoke hands thick in the air. Our shadows dance at our backs, us watching with strange fascination about what the heat is doing to our memories. Leita moves to hold hands with Tolosa, and then Zorion has her hand, and soon the four of us are locked together. Forever and always. And even as the smoke brings tears to our eyes, we do not cry watching the flames take away our past. It’s a warmth we needed to feel, to better ourselves—to cleanse and to rid the sadness from the air. Zorion smiles, and he laughs, swinging his hand with Tolosa. The two of them break into a fit of giggles, and then Leita joins. The three of them move away from the fire, readying themselves to head back inside. I turn to look at them, and once again at the fire. It stalks the air, reaching up toward the sky, a beautiful flame burning away whatever I’d known of my father before.
I let them leave me there, watching the flame to grow, collect, and to die. I sit in the field, the bonfire steady and full of life. I hoist another log onto it for good measure, watching as the flakes of fire spiral up into the air. I bring my knees to my chest and listen to the wind, and to the emptiness of the field. There the fire burns what we need to forget.
Let me learn from where I have been
Keep my eyes to serve, my hands to learn
[/blockquote][/size][/justify]Keep my eyes to serve, my hands to learn
