Weaver birds

CROOKED ALIGNMENT

 

It is clear that he left without a shred of intention to return. Not even when she implored and wept and fought. He doesn’t notice the struggle. And when he does he stares like a blind man. Pretending not to behold.

Christine tries to live without him. At times she weeps bitterly. The tears however do not wash away her sorrows. After nights of soaked pillows she fails to realize that this loneliness lives in her heart. Not on her swollen cheeks. Not on her curvy hips that she lets warm bath water run over. Gleaming in the light of the darkness of her ultimate loss.

Now that she only listens to the echoes of that warm laughter she once unleashed, Christine relives the gone days. His deep voice resonates at a depth of her heart. It once gave her goose bumps and left her giddy. She still feels his tender touch today; warm and reassuring.

Some of those evenings they sat on a rock shooting breeze. And hearts. The rays of the setting sun floating on trees tops turning the leaves golden. Christine then knew that with the long stretch of the land that lay still before them they would walk far leaving behind a trail of dripping passion. Her heart was smitten. And in total glare of soaring falcons and baboons plucking some red fruits under their feet they kissed passionately. They licked each other clean of sweetness.

When he was hers they would text the night away. Wishing they had each other in their arms. They kissed through the phone and felt it on their lips. To them each heartbeat was a banging within demanding for a physical reunion.

A shape was drawn strictly for two. The mysterious boundaries bore their names: Christine and Shaw and their little secrets. Like two weaver birds building a nest they worked on it. At times in turns. At times in unison. It was to be custom just to soot their specific preferences. She preferred Pink and woolen. He just wanted a reading room from whence he would write her love poems. And so their wishes were granted.

Then time brought in turbulence. Something of a typhoon she can’t understand. All she knows is she is now all alone in this love nest. And she can’t seem to find anyone to replace him. What if he comes back and finds the smell of another man in his manor? Will this other one assimilate their exquisite preferences?

Each night when there is a full moon she lays on the wet grass, staring at that glowing ball of light that so reminds her of Shaw. It is as if the ethereal rays convey the sweet aroma of his cologne. With her neck exposed, the shimmering light feeds the golden ring on her neck with light which in turn feeds her of his begotten love. It is only since the scatology that Christine has learnt to wear it on the outside. Lying to the world that he bought it during their Valentines that never was.

Each night when the moon is anything but full she lays on her bed. Staring silently at the dear snapshots of the handsome Shaw through a film of tears. He never smiled in photographs Shaw. Christine wishes she had a single shot of his smile so she could keep it in her heart.

On those haunting nights Christine texts him. Even when she knows that Shaw reads her sob texts and never bothers to reply. In his silence she finds company. Christine can’t crack him with love anymore. But somehow she knows what breaks him. Oh bless the diamonds between her thighs.

They used to make love like Rabbits. She can’t stop fantasizing those orgasm filled moments. When he could wreck through the contours of her body leaving Christine exasperated. Seizure. Of those unbelievable moments. Of gasps. And sweat. And cries. And shallow breaths.

Shaw nowadays just calls. She offers herself hoping it would help but he never looks back after he is done drawing leading marks all over her body. He leaves Christine writhing with desire. He fucks her right. She loves him right. What a crooked alignment.

Now, with pieces of a broken heart, she chases Shaw around like a graduate does jobs. And Christine was taught never to give up. She practically doesn’t know how. However much he goes mute on her, scorches her with scolding words and leaps behind shadows whenever she calls his name, Christine trails.

When finally he finds his way back home she will receive him. She will guide him to their bed. And they will make love to drain the restlessness that they harbor. He will knit back together the broken pieces of her. In the victory of the moment, Christine will breathe easy. And for once sleep tight.

However, one afternoon while watching the wedding show on TV disinterested, Christine saw him. He was in a dark tuxedo. Darker than sin. He was getting married to a girl far better than Christine. He looked happier than he was with her. The world could as well hear Christine’s heart break. She realized then that all this while it was just fractured.

#thewordbrewer

 

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The Knock Part 2

knock

Josephine rises and flings the door open. My chest rises with anticipation. I sit ready to rush to him and wail until he carries me to our bed and lulls me into sleep. The knocker is hesitant. Maybe Brent is careful now that he has heard the news doing rounds. Then Richard pokes his purple face in then the whole of his body. Relief like loose soil in the heavy rain erodes away. He quickly reads it on my face and apologizes as if that would transform him into my Brent.

He parts me on the shoulder from behind the sofa. The posture he carries around signals misfortune. Perhaps he is shriveled by the news of the accident. He gives Josephine a wink. I sit silently. Unable to speak. My throat is dry, my lips are dry and my eyes are dry.

His trousers rips as he squats before me to speak. I don’t ooze empathy just now, I want my Brent. I want his presence. Nothing else. And I tell him so without hesitation. With grief. He stares at me for long, his lips trembling, his eyes are watery and blinking fast. There is a strange hollowness in his stare. His old face is well battered and dark.

When he finally speaks, the world comes to a cringing stop. He gives me the opposite of what I wanted.

“I am so sorry. The doctors say they did all they could.”

I stare at him long after he spoken but do not quite see him. All I see are blurred memories. Something tells me to walk away into that room that has the smell of his presence. It is a lie that they are all saying. Brent is not dead. No he isn’t at all.

The rain water splash softly against the window. Beyond the thin strands of rain water I behold two lovebirds dashing about in the rain.Laughing loudly. The weaver birds are perched on trees watching as the rain falls incessantly. They are all in pairs. Feeling each others’ warmth and savoring the romance ridden moment. Far yonder housetops are covered in mist. They are all stern and defiant. I envy them. They know not of seasons nor times.

birds

The prospect of losing him just now is impossible. It cannot be. Weakness is coming to swallow me whole and I don’t know how to fight. He never taught me that. He only taught me to love and to enjoy the sweetness of protection. He taught me not to fear but I am now horrified. Where are you Brent? Why do you leave now?

Tears roll into my mouth and give me a sour taste that is going to reign in my heart for a very long time. The lemon and lemonade adage is all but a pure lie. How can I live now with the smell of horror haunting my being?

I will weep again when I see his gentle face deep asleep in death. It is in my senses that the long procession of years to come that will be spent without him will be filled with agony. I cross my arms across my chest to cordon them off. For the hate in my heart matches the deep love that I have for him. No man will ever put together these pieces that I can’t gather. In my sleep I will weep again and again until we are both joined in death.

I loved him all times. The beat of my heart whispers of him and his big heart dedicated to loving me. Not the strongest of sparks will ever melt out this coldness in my heart. The heat is frozen with him in death.

Josephine and Richards are standing at the door behind me. They are trying to feel my pain, as they think they should, but all is now lost. It is beyond them to rekindle the candle that lit my way. Josephine is begging me not to whip myself but I am not. His departure is. I will not get over him. I will rock the boat to the shore but the wave will forever keep me away.

Even in the tight embrace, I still feel cold and alone. My sister can no longer give me what I want for she has not. Richards knows well he is well out of question. All he can do is stand at the door, blocking the orange hallway light from pouring into the room with his gigantic frame, and look like he is that shoulder they all talk about. Will he have it for me for the rest of his life? Will he bathe in these tears I can’t hold back?

I am led back to the living room. At least it is warm out there, they say. I sit staring at space as if it holds answers to my questions. Then that knock that has dismembered me over and over today comes on again. My shudder is now confused. My hopes rise hesitantly. Expectations again haunt me. They could have been wrong for that knock resonates with his.

Once that door opens, Brent will walk in and we will all weep out of joy. He will inquire why anyone would want to kill him before his time comes. I will tell him to take me to the bedroom and make love to me. He will do what he does best and tear me apart like a tiger. He always does.

The door flies open and it’s not Brent.

It’s not a friend either. Could it be any worse anyway? It is my brother who had been proclaimed dead a year ago just like Brent now. I am confused. Am I to jump in excitement? Will I be able to lift the weight of grief that is upon me?

#thewordbrewer