Storying for Thursday, August 14, 2008

“My man is dead Commish,” my voice soft, empty not even hateful, I don’t hate this man no more. This voice that comin’ out my throat is cold like the inside of a deep freeze, cold and hollow like the frozen hold of the freight boat that comes to the island twice a month. “He is dead, but he still my man.” I ain’t stop chopping yet. The blade in my hand still feel light as air and it still flashin’ sunlight off its edge, still spittin’ rock and fire every time it hit the ground. Murphy’s eyes... Sign in to see full entry.

“Mornin’ Miss Ida,” the voice come from close behind me. It Darrel Murphy, smiling broad and looking cool and fresh in the morning sun. He give me a start, sneaking up on me; just ain’ natural for a man so big to move so quiet. “Umhum,” I say’. I walk couple steps away from him, assault another piece of bush, chop at it so hard shards of rock spray out and sparks fly off the cutlass. Every swing I make is a curse I rain down on his head. As usual he don’t take the hint. “Fine day we havin’ Miss... Sign in to see full entry.

V Morning find me in my field, my own little stretch of rock and soil where I raise water melon, tomato and peas. Just like the Co-Op field the corn stand’ tall in mine too, and just like in the Co-Op field keepin’ the bush back is a daily chore. The sound of me working rouse the birds out they nests to start singing, but I can’t find the heart to join em today. The mosquitoes surprise’ to see me out so early, they buzz me plenty tryin’ to figure out what I think I’m doin’, but they too confused... Sign in to see full entry.

Sophie fix’ on me with her dark, kind eyes; her strong hands take hold of me and pull me into her arms. Sophie smell like soap and sweat and everything good ‘bout a kitchen. She smell like a home should smell, like most of her long burdensome days are happy ones. She lay my aching head on her chest, and she hold me like I never let her do when I got the news ‘bout Franklin boat turnin’ up. Her song take’ me back to that night. Her arms and her smell and the dark compassion shining wet and hot in... Sign in to see full entry.

IV Most Sunday evening’s I spend visitin’; I take a pan of potato bread or carrot cake and go round to Ol’e Miss Walker who joints swell up too much to allow her catch service for herself. I sit with her and sing the hymns I already sang in church so she don’t feel too left out. I do li’l things round her place; straighten it up so life a bit easier for the ol’e widow. Then I go see Sophie and couple other ladies, trade food and tales, talk ‘bout Service and sometimes sing a little. But today I... Sign in to see full entry.