The relatives are leaning over, staring expectantly. They moisten their lips with their tongues. I can feel them urging me on. I hold the baby in the air. Heaps of broken bottles glitter in the sun. A small band is playing old fashioned marches. My mother is keeping time by stamping her foot. My father is kissing a woman who keeps waving to somebody else. There are palm trees. The hills are spotted with orange flamboyants and tall billowy clouds move beyond them. "Go on, Boy," I hear somebody say, "Go on." I keep wondering if it will rain. The sky darkens. There is thunder. "Break his legs," says one of my aunts, "Now give him a kiss." I do what I'm told. The trees bend in the bleak tropical wind. The baby did not scream, but I remember that sigh when I reached inside for his tiny lungs and shook them out in the air for the flies. The relatives cheered. It was about that time I gave up. Now, when I answer the phone, his lips are in the receiver; when I sleep, his hair is gathered around a familiar face on the pillow; wherever I search I find his feet. He is what is left of my life.
Added: 2 Dec 2001 | Last Read: 30 Apr 2017 3:01 AM | Viewed: 16097 times
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