The mark

In the beginning ?...

"If I were a bird and was to walk on two feet, I'll be useless
if I were a lion and still beg, I'll be useless
if I were a bee and never sting, I'll be useless
if I were a ....."

I was used to these mantras, they formed a part of my life. Every Sunday for as long as i remember my dad gathered kids from our neighborhood, stuffed them in our large basement, and taught them these rhymes, and he told them stories. Stories of Greek Gods, journeys that were undertaken by strange men and women. He read poetry he studied while he was at Oxford, he tells me that in another life he would have been a poet, content with words, stanzas and pages but this was not the life we lived.

Things they will never need, like the fruits that are best for healing injuries, concoctions that make you vomit at the taste were said to be remedies for what? I do not know. 

I had gotten used to the faces of astonishment, of awe. Hell, I carried those same expressions myself. It was as -if every Sunday those stories would take a new meaning, a new form like an ever changing bird landing in different paces in my subconsciousness. My dad was a tall, burly black man with white teeth and eyes that always say I know way more than you can ever imagine, but they were never proud and demanding. His physique proved threatening but his soul was nurturing. He was patient, and would normally would say lo que ves es lo que obtienes any time I complained to him. 

When my dad started inviting these kids into our home I was 6. They came in with their muddy boots, and their sticky fingers marked all my drawing . Those drawings back then were my prized possessions so I usually greeted my age mates with anger and resentment; however, my mum always greeted them with plates of cookies that I never got to have she said it was all part of my training, training for what I never knew?  During these Sunday session, I learned more than I felt I learned at normal school, this was something no one could take away. Thought the room was full with children everything else fell apart when my father taught not only with his voice, but with his eyes and soul. 

To me my dad was my whole world and was worth more than all the drawings I ever owned. 

When my dad died, It was a gloomy day. I had just turned 13 a few days ago .There was something wrong with the way the grass refused to move with the wind. The sky was grey and rain poured inconsistently. My dad loved the Rain, that's why he named me Rain. To others, he said rain was a disturbance, but to him rain was the sign of better things to come: a fresh harvest, a rainbow, little animals seeking hydration. I was his Rain. I still am, I think. The rain that day was different, thunder boomed over my school and lightning threatened to cross paths with the town.

When my dad died I was in Gym class, looking outside at the tree that swayed with the harsh wind. The teacher talked about badminton and was animatedly swinging his arms, I didn't like the teacher he looked at me weirdly.  When Sydney Witherspoon ran into the auditorium everyone stopped warming up for the upcoming game and looked at her- she wasn't meant to be in this class,  but she didn't look at them. I think that was the first time in high school that someone had looked directly at me with another emotion that wasn't suspicion or curiosity, this was an emotion I wasn't used to. Pity. 

I was confused when she ran towards me and gave me a big hug. Her hair damp from running in the rain.
"it's your dad, Mr. Grey told me that he collapsed" I could see some of my classmates pretending  not to listen.

 Sydney looked at me with expectancy. I should be crying, I didn't want to cry, I didn't feel like crying. With people's stares boring into my back I went to the locker room. I locked myself in the bathroom,  looked at myself in the mirror and waited for the tears to fall.

I got excused from school, I saw my mum's car at the entrance of the school gate, I entered the car feeling the blast of the heater and I sighed. My mums eyes met mine in the mirror, her eyes looked puffy and tired. We didn't speak to each other the drive home.

A MONTH later......

 My hair was packed in a bun there was a black sleeveless gown on my bed with a black shawl with sequins, I looked at my brooches and considered wearing one, pushing that thought aside I walked towards my bed and dressed up. 

Will lip gloss be to vulgar for a burial? I thought to myself

Hell its my dad's burial i should be allowed to do what. I whipped out clear lip gloss and smoothed my lips over.

My mother honked outside the house, going down the stairs i realized how empty and soulless the house was. After my dad died the we had no more visitors, with the exception of my best friend Freddie and the occasional " I'm sorry for your loss". I looked at a picture of my dad hanging from the wall and I punched the frame. The picture hit the ground with a crash and blood dripped down staining the carpet. I didn't feel the pain, I don't feel anymore.

My mum saw the roughly bandaged hand, she didn't say a word. That's how it has been for the past few weeks now, I act out, she presses her lips tightly together and doesn't say a word.

The burial seemed short,  the autumn air whipped my hair back and forth across my face, it had escaped from my bun only minutes earlier. We were told that we could now look at the body, my mum went first her shoulders trembling with silent tears. I felt guilty for feeling nothing , pain, relief nothing was there. I looked at the body dressed in the suit,  the folded hands and all the familiar wrinkles that covered my fathers face. I reached down to pull down his sleeve that had rolled up and then I saw a familiar sign on his wrist, my breath caught in my throat, willing myself that it is just a trick of my eyes.

 I touched the mark cautiously, images flashed behind my eyes, my mum falling off a cliff, I saw my face but it was glowing. A hand grasping my shoulder . it was so painful that I  fell on the ground my tears mixing with the sand on the floor. I shook on the ground for some time. Unknown relatives and friends were all touching me, pulling me on my side, calling my name. During that moment, I sobbed, I missed my dad and I wanted to curl into a ball and die.