Ancient Love
She met him, of all places, at a bar. She never thought she would meet anyone worth becoming friends with at a place like that until her girlfriend Margaret said, “If you can be there, so can he.” He dj’d and she had seen him before, always acknowledging the warm brown face that never failed to smile at her. But back then, she was married, and had dismissed him rather quickly. She knew, even back then, the dangers of allowing thoughts of him to linger in her mind.
But that night at the bar, dressed in too big jeans and a large sweater, her path had crossed his. She wasn’t particularly interested in meeting anyone—thus the clothes. He was casual too—jeans, red sneakers and a fleece. He said he was trying to avoid black clothing—she was too as well. He was tall and thin and what she liked most about him was the upbeat air he seemed to wear about him. He seemed to always be on the positive side of things, so unlike her, who truth be told, probably wouldn’t even get out of bed in the morning if outside duties didn’t call. She remembers how much sadder she had gotten when, while cooking dinner, her 5 year old had asked, “Momma, why you always mad all the time?” Startled, she asked, “What?” She immediately put the lid of the pot down and kneeled so that she could meet him eye-level.
“You always looking mad all the time momma—“ She absently touched her face with her fingers and what she felt was foreign—a mask whose features had become all screwed up by worry. She felt so squashed, as if life had taken its thumb and forced her head, the last remaining part of her body that was left above ground, under the earth. She felt so buried.
That night when they met he played all the old hits. Evelyn King’s Love Come Down, Mfume’s Juicy. Some Biggie and KRS-One even. She laughed every time he put a song on from what he was establishing to be their common past and while she sat on the sofa, smiling a rare smile, sipping a rare cocktail and looking all hippied-out, she realized she loved him in some urgent, irresolvable way.
She’d just bought some grits too. She needed them ‘cause sometimes, when loneliness ate at her insides and her movement became even more disconnected, a pot of grits would instantly align what real life couldn’t. She’d cook some up and pour butter all over them. She’d sit on her couch and eat straight from the pot, missing some old Caribbean woman saying, “If you eat from a pot you never never never going to get married.”
“Too late”, she’d answer sassily, only to have the empty echo of her reply resound throughout the room.
He smelled of coconut and so home and so one whiff of him and she was transported to a stoop out in Brooklyn, under a cool, denim colored sky. All she wanted to do was to thank him. She didn’t even want to kiss him. Not just yet, anyway. Much less make love to him. It wasn’t that she wasn’t attracted to him. But rather, for the first time in her life, she found the presence of a man nourishing, nurturing and full of respect.
She read to him an ancient song, translated from patois (the old Slave language of the creolized African) she had received from her great grandmother:
You are the color of the earth
That beckons me
To the bush
Brown and black limbs
From Africa
From India
Walk silently
Among paths
Never penetrated before.
Gently we move the
Large blades
Of leaves Aside
Gently we move them Aside
Using no force
But going with Nature,
The wetness of
The earth
Cools the sweat
Of my toil,
The orchestra of
Frogs
The backdrop to
This scene,
Green so high
It tickles the
Underbelly of the
Sky, until
Gently a drizzle passes
I am cooled,
I stop to rest,
Only to see you
There
Brown and wet and
Relaxed
Waiting for me
Because years
ago we could not
meet
but now
right now
we can.
And the song described exactly how she feels. To move slowly was key. Their paths were destined to meet, for what she still was unsure. To get at the bottom of not only his heart but also hers was key. And for that and only that did she find, the usual rush of the physical pale in comparison. There’s was not about the physical. It was about the daily bread, the affirmation of the other and camaraderie in this dark crevice of life she had fallen into, had found herself in, only to look up and realize that she was not alone because years ago they could not meet, but now, right now, they can.
But that night at the bar, dressed in too big jeans and a large sweater, her path had crossed his. She wasn’t particularly interested in meeting anyone—thus the clothes. He was casual too—jeans, red sneakers and a fleece. He said he was trying to avoid black clothing—she was too as well. He was tall and thin and what she liked most about him was the upbeat air he seemed to wear about him. He seemed to always be on the positive side of things, so unlike her, who truth be told, probably wouldn’t even get out of bed in the morning if outside duties didn’t call. She remembers how much sadder she had gotten when, while cooking dinner, her 5 year old had asked, “Momma, why you always mad all the time?” Startled, she asked, “What?” She immediately put the lid of the pot down and kneeled so that she could meet him eye-level.
“You always looking mad all the time momma—“ She absently touched her face with her fingers and what she felt was foreign—a mask whose features had become all screwed up by worry. She felt so squashed, as if life had taken its thumb and forced her head, the last remaining part of her body that was left above ground, under the earth. She felt so buried.
That night when they met he played all the old hits. Evelyn King’s Love Come Down, Mfume’s Juicy. Some Biggie and KRS-One even. She laughed every time he put a song on from what he was establishing to be their common past and while she sat on the sofa, smiling a rare smile, sipping a rare cocktail and looking all hippied-out, she realized she loved him in some urgent, irresolvable way.
She’d just bought some grits too. She needed them ‘cause sometimes, when loneliness ate at her insides and her movement became even more disconnected, a pot of grits would instantly align what real life couldn’t. She’d cook some up and pour butter all over them. She’d sit on her couch and eat straight from the pot, missing some old Caribbean woman saying, “If you eat from a pot you never never never going to get married.”
“Too late”, she’d answer sassily, only to have the empty echo of her reply resound throughout the room.
He smelled of coconut and so home and so one whiff of him and she was transported to a stoop out in Brooklyn, under a cool, denim colored sky. All she wanted to do was to thank him. She didn’t even want to kiss him. Not just yet, anyway. Much less make love to him. It wasn’t that she wasn’t attracted to him. But rather, for the first time in her life, she found the presence of a man nourishing, nurturing and full of respect.
She read to him an ancient song, translated from patois (the old Slave language of the creolized African) she had received from her great grandmother:
You are the color of the earth
That beckons me
To the bush
Brown and black limbs
From Africa
From India
Walk silently
Among paths
Never penetrated before.
Gently we move the
Large blades
Of leaves Aside
Gently we move them Aside
Using no force
But going with Nature,
The wetness of
The earth
Cools the sweat
Of my toil,
The orchestra of
Frogs
The backdrop to
This scene,
Green so high
It tickles the
Underbelly of the
Sky, until
Gently a drizzle passes
I am cooled,
I stop to rest,
Only to see you
There
Brown and wet and
Relaxed
Waiting for me
Because years
ago we could not
meet
but now
right now
we can.
And the song described exactly how she feels. To move slowly was key. Their paths were destined to meet, for what she still was unsure. To get at the bottom of not only his heart but also hers was key. And for that and only that did she find, the usual rush of the physical pale in comparison. There’s was not about the physical. It was about the daily bread, the affirmation of the other and camaraderie in this dark crevice of life she had fallen into, had found herself in, only to look up and realize that she was not alone because years ago they could not meet, but now, right now, they can.
Comments
Hugs,
the lab