Amen by Makambo Tshionyi

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The Boy was birthed into the world flush against rotted soil.  The soil of the Shallows, that of our Township.  The first soil to feel the feet of men, it is said, within the Township.  But, old, tired stuff, the soil.  Worn and no longer blessed.  And many did feel that way, of course, within the Township.  But not me.  To me, it was different, it was special, the soil.  It was the stuff within which I first glimpsed the Boy, my son.  There he been, cued up sharp, like a pearl in white.  Simple and not, but all at once, the Boy.  Godly and worldly and not.  Haloed in clear white.  Shoved deep down into dirt.  Guiltless and damned at once.  Tumbled into the world from nothing, from his Mama, the Waif.  His Mama who never did nothing simple that coulda been done harder.  She come to straddle over the dirt mound where he come to land, the Waif, his mama.  Ankles spread wide.  Knees kinda buckled.  Sweat clung to her brow.  Clench to her jaw.  But she did, in the end, land him soft into the soil.  Didn’t break his neck; didn’t break his back.  But the soil, it wormed deep into the Boy’s ears.  Shoved steady into the soft corners of his mouth.  Pressed hard to get into his eyes.  My Boy.  Gifted with sharp curled fingers.  A mouth stuffed full with bleach white teeth.  He landed soft as he could.  Upon a day, this kind of day, one no different from any other kind of day.

Now, he do squirm a bit, I had said, plucking the Boy straight from the dirt—Yes he do.  Do look a shade on fanciful, he do...  He feel like a wet stone in my hands, I said—Like he come to feel the sickness of the salt that been tossed over shoulders, without no care, without no proper thought, neither.  

Well, maybe you just ain’t the one to hold him—the Waif had replied, sharp—Maybe your hands ain’t so clever as you care to think they is.  Maybe you just too steeped in slow.  Maybe your grin too square; or maybe your heart just beat cold.   

So, bring him on back to his mama, she said then, gesturing frantically, bring him on back to where he belong, true an’ true he belong—because you know for sure he ain’t never gonna hold you right, she said, ain’t never gonna know you right.  He gonna disappear straight from your arms.  Like you never done held him.  Like you ain’t known to him.  Like he never seen you or nothin like you.  

Ain’t what Grandmama said, I snapped…  An’ she got the eye.  She in the know.  She about that.  Got the clear vision, an’ the long view, she do…

Grandmama don’t know her backside from the front, the Waif retorted— How you gonna take her plain words on something that ain’t mean?  

She always been true to be, I replied, she ain’t never been wronger than wrong.  

And then I handed to the Waif the Boy.  And she held him.  And then promptly revolted.  Felt nauseated.  Felt a rising unease and sense of disgust within her stomach.  Because, try as she might, the Waif could not erase from her mind the image of the Boy as a wriggling, nude pasty thing, a thing tumbled out fresh into the world, face down, next to the Mangroves at sway; gifted with wire rose fingers, a sharp jeweled nose , shriveled white-shoulders.  Her’s but not her’s, she thought.  From her but not for reals of her…

So, the Waif turned sharp my way.—You know it’s a sin to covet, she snapped, staring me full in the face—somethin’ that don’t belong proper to you.  Something you ain’t had no real hand or hope in building. It be a sin, it do.—If God woulda made you whole and not clever, then maybe I was gonna excuse you.  Can’t do none of that now.  You been seeing what ain’t there.  Seeing what ain’t yours.  He ain’t yours to be seen.  Not proper-wise, he ain’t…

–I knowed what you mean, I replied—your words as clear as water.  Like the sun ain’t never stopped beating, I knows your words good and proper, I do know all that, for sures I know that, know alls that well.  

–Wasn’t no different kind of way it coulda been, I suppose.  Him coming out how he been.  You being how he by.  Like there be a sense of humor to it all.  Like some wild kind of laughter that don’t quit for trying. 

–Clear as water, you is, I continued–Feels almost like you taking a pleasure in a boy not seeing his papa’s face clear.  Like you getting joy from him not knowing that his papa has brought him out, clean into the world, and proper too, just to be known.… 

And how you suppose, the Waif replied, with a mocking lilt to her voice, that all them spots on him has come to be in the first place?  Figurin’ the small of me has just up an’ sprung up inside the whole of him?  Figurin’ he done messed up somethin’ angry?—the Waif had asked …figurin’ that’s what it be?  

But, I didn’t have no answer for the Waif, not right then I didn’t, not no real kind of answer I didn’t… Could be, not sure—I said slowly, after a time. –It been gray around here for a long time, been cold for a long time.  

—No telling the telling of things could make a Boy like him stir up angry…  No tellin’, for sure…

Figurin’ it be a curse?  The Waif continued, voice trailing off at the end–Maybe I been known an’ blessed improper?  

And as she spoke them words, the Waif stroked softly the Boy’s hands for simple signs of familiarity and grace, because she was and wasn’t his, and because he was and couldn’t never be her’s, and that’s what she knowed, that’s what she come to think…  But still, the Boy didn’t respond none; instead, he just stayed ink silent, wouldn’t even turn an eye up to his natural born mama.  

And so, without no kind of warning, the Waif handed abruptly the Boy back to me…A boy know his daddy, best as he can, even if what he seen been something shouldn’t never be in your sights.—the Waif whispered to me then –But you, you he ain’t never gonna hold you right, you knows that—He knowed already what you is, knowed square what you done, knowed square who you is, he knowed you plenty well, fresh to this world though he be….

And as I held tight on to the Boy, I rocked gently within my arms, my son:

… And I ain’t felt nothing peculiar at all, continued the Waif…

… I ain’t felt nothing peculiar at all the whole time he been in me, nothing but empty, an’ cold.  Felt the wind wisk sharp and hard through my hair and thought nothing of it.  Might have been a sign of sorts. A shard of hatred.  The white an’ the red an’ the black.  Felt the water choke steady through the smallest of my throat, felt a kindling of doubt twisting up my gut…I ain’t done nothing wrong to feel no kinda guilt on.  

Ain’t that simple, I replied.  

Simple as you want it to be, said she.  

Grandmama, I said then, speaking to the Waif’s Mama, who been standing right beside us all along—what you think on all this?  And Grandmama stepped on over, stepped in, placed gentle her arm upon my shoulder—Just needs a bit of touch up is all, Grandmama said—just to make him clean and proper, how he supposed to have been.  

So he don’t look so tired no more…

Needs a bit of tending to, is all.  Nothing precious don’t come from something precious.  God don’t make nothing wrong from nothin’…It ain’t nothing to be afear’d of— It’s just a smudge be all.  Just be a coupla smudges be all.  Nothin’ not to be known or seen or smelled or touched… 

And of course I had seen them, them smudges.  Seen them clear.  Like broke wide open scabs. Couldn’t avoid it neither, the white.  It bled and reeked, it stung, was pasty, felt cold, revolting, the white.  But still, he was my Boy, and that is how it was.  

Them is the sort of things to be known by the sort who has been set out to know them sort of things—I said then to the Waif—But he do be yours.  And mine.  And blessed as he be, he do be that…

Sure he ain’t like a black stone in white? the Waif asked.  –Maybe I done wrong when I was carrying him proper for all of them whole nine months?  

Maybe you tossed some salt over your shoulder when he was growing, I said, not really accusing her of nothin’, not really.  

Maybe you chewed up something sour or stumbled down at the Shallows before he was all the way ripe? 

Nothin’ been chewed, nothin’ been done, she said.

What you mean?

Nothin’ been seen, nothin been touched.  Things just be how they been.

The Waif’s face took on then a shade of white almost imperceptible.  Her eyes, hardened, glistened.  Her jaw took on an edge, again.  

Breaths along with words spun out knotted and hurried—You know, he ain’t never gonna see you proper—the Waif mumbled—not like you is his own proper blood, he ain’t—He ain’t never gonna see you proper-Not like he your natural born son or nothing…

Don’t listen to her none, I whispered to the Boy—I has seen the quiet in your eyes, even before I seen your face.  Don’t listen to her none—Don’t listen to her none, I knows you just as well as I gotta…

Still got them spots on his face, don’t he? the Waif asked again, somethin’ not right, but not quite wrong to her voice—It be like a smudge that don’t smear? Found hisself crooked and wrong, didn’t he?  

 –I felt he was kickin’ wrong all along.  Knowed he been bad seed, all along.  

—Knowed I should walked more straight when I been carrying him, shoudda prayed more proper…

Yes ma’am—I replied.— Yes ma’am, could be that way.  

I’m not one to think too much on the short questions in long ways neither—But there do be a special kind of peculiar to him.  

—It even be like he ain’t even tryin’—

And then Grandmama spoke, just to break the silence that been clouded up deep by our words:

…It’s just a smudge be all—she had said –Mama seen worse, and she sure known worse.  This here just ain’t the stone to let go of just yet…

…And anyways—continued the Waif—you never can tell the loose mind of small boys—though, I admit I ain’t felt nothing peculiar the whole time he been growin’ in me, and I has kept my ear tight and close to my belly, just as close and as long as I could.  

—Mama always said nothin’ good come from nothin; true enough—them was her words.  

I knew my ear shoudda been pressed flat against the ground this whole time.  

Flat as it could be, I knew that, but didn’t listen none to myself, even when the words was as clear and loud, and plain as they oughta be…

Figurin’ we oughta hold’ ‘im up, I asked the Waif—Straighten up his head proper?  

Look like he need a run in the Shallows.  Clean him up a little.  

Make him proper, best as we can.  Him bein’ how he be, I mean.  

Can’t be too sure with a boy like that—

—You figurin’ he just tired?  Maybe he just spent hisself up all them months?  Thinkin’ that might be it?…

—Hold ‘im, don’t drop him, the Waif hissed—hold ‘im close, don’t drop him…

Yes ma’am…

—he gonna drip hisself clean.  He gonna be just clean as he supposed to be…  

Yes ma’am, Yes ma’am…

He gonna fix up soon, I figure, the Waif said, nodding–He ain’t got no choice in the matter, not truly he don’t…

Yes ma’am, I replied – yes ma’am, yes ma’am…

Grandmama stepped in closer; and she pulled from her pocket a dint of gray wool and she tried as best she could to pass the wool in luxurious, smooth arcs across the Boy’s face, swept across the nape of his neck, wiped below the small of his belly, swaddled the soles of his feet, which successively bloomed and flaked and wept as she done so.  

And as she done so, Grandmama come to think on: a man who once loved her who didn’t no more; and had left her once with child; a child who become then a man; A man who drank and struck with fists closed his own blood known son; across the nape, across his cheek; that that man’s son married a woman, thin, quiet and fearful, in form and name a waif; A woman who birthed a boy blessed to be known, and not to be hidden, with matte obsidian skin tone and bone white hair; but who would not cry out or acknowledge his own natural born mama, when first and thereafter when he been given a chance to do so.

…Keep it calm, keep it quiet, Grandmama whispered to the Boy, her fingers fretful and blurred as she worked.

—keep it calm, keep it quiet…

—Couldn’t he have found proper a way to make hisself seen to whoever do need to see?

Not sure… I replied… the world ain’t always spun that way.  Not sure at all…

Could be, I s’pose.  

But it don’t have to be.  For sure it don’t…

… Not sure…

… I ain’t felt nothing peculiar at all, the Waif kept repeating, staring accusing at the Boy, and intermittently at me too…

—the whole time, nothin’ is what I felt.  

… I ain’t felt nothing peculiar at all, didn’t feel nothin’ at all, telling the truth, best as I can…

.. but what I’m sayin’ is, interjected Grandmama, before tugging a bit more on the thin wool rub, just as softy as she dared to—is don’t you mind none of that all.  If you is to be seen and known, you is to be seen and known, that’s all…   

—Seem he coulda made hisself more proper before he just presented hisself… 

It just do seem that way, it do…

—Just hold ‘im shallow, I said to Grandmama, handing to her my own—Hold ‘im shallow–an’ hold him tight.  

Don’t let him slip none.  

Figure a fall be the last he be needing.  

Him and how he been.  

That’s the last he be needing—

Its gonna pass soon enough—Grandmama replied, even as she in turn handed the Boy on back to me–you gonna see it through clear enough, you will.  

Grace ain’t always clear to see, not clear enough it ain’t…

–Yes ma’am,

—I seen that.  Sure enough I seen that, I have…  

And so, with a slight tremble to my hand, I took my own turn to wash the Boy—and I washed until the white sloughed in scattered droplets from his fingertips and his nose, flayed until skin angered and puckered, and stained, almost egg white, against the honest ebony of the top of the sand.  

…You gonna be precious, I thought as I worked.  Precious as you could be.  

As you gonna be, ought to be.  

I ain’t got nothing wrong for you.  You is blessed and precious and honest as you is.  

Can’t call on nothin’ more than that, blessed as you is, precious as you be …

Its gonna pass soon enough—Grandmama said then—

…Gonna pass soon enough.  

Don’t you worry none…

Yes ma’am, I thought to myself, shoulders hunched, chin down—yes ma’am, yes ma’am.

And I took then to whistling the lyrics of a song Grandmama had used to sing to me, back when I wasn’t much more older than this same here Boy—  

The Old Man don’t love nothing he don’t love….

The Old Man can’t see nothin’ he can’t see..

And Grandmama, she of course overheard me whistling the song, and the barest of smiles began to spread wide and thin across her face, like an unloomed shawl, one draped heavy and oil black, anchored to its proper place.

The Old Man don’t love nothing he don’t love, I sung, The Old Man can’t see nothin’ he can’t see..

The Old Man don’t love nothing he don’t love.  The Old Man can’t see nothin’ he can’t see..

—He soft, you know, curious, The Waif come to say then, teeth, translucent almost, bared, glinting —But he ain’t for you to hold.  Not proper-wise, he ain’t—

…Yes ma’am

—he gonna be clean as a rose at the dawn– Yes ma’am….  

And Grandmama, she grasped gentle the small corner of my left elbow, fixed me to quiet—

Hold ‘im, don’t drop him, she said, sternly—hold ‘im close, don’t drop him…

Yes ma’am

—Yes ma’am, yes ma’am…

—He still precious how he been?, come then to ask the Waif—He still dizzy with the white?— 

Yes ma’am

—he sure do be that way.  Yes ma’am…

I don’t care how he come to be how he be—she continued—Lookin’ precious to scheme just as he do.  Just make him as clean an’ sober as he need to be…

And then she shook softly her head, to the ramblings of delusion I s’pose, where she been standing at, as I come to speak myself, clear and honest to the Boy:

You know who I is, I whispered, cradling close to my face the Boy—I is your Papa, an’ I has loved you proper since the beginning, an’ I is gonna fix you precious in the end—

And the Boy, of course, even then he come to know enough to remain just as quiet as the rain that refused to fall.   

Hold ‘im tight, the Waif shouted—Get to prayin’ as you is.  Get to prayin’ as you is…

What gonna make him clean and proper again.

So he can be what he supposed to be

Not no kind of dirty or impure.

Just a Boy figuring on growin’ up in no special kind of way, who love his mama and know for sure his daddy–

And then it come to be time to take the Boy home, and so we did that, me and the Waif and Grandmama, we done that.  

We left the Shallows, trudged back home, vines wide above, burrs fixed to our shoes, socks stuck with eyeteeth. 

Them mud patches was slick and ready to dispatch if we was ever feeling foolish enough to step into them wrong.  We was as were: all of us, square in union under the dark, the Boy hisself , touched with arching wide feet, with twitching pipe stem arms…

… Get to prayin’ as you is…

… Get to prayin’ as you is…

He gonna fix up soon, I figure, the Waif mumbled, every now then, as we come to make our way our way on home –He ain’t got no choice in the matter, not truly how it be…

…Maybe you tossed some salt over your shoulder when he was growing—I said then.

—  Maybe you chewed up something sour or stumbled down at the Shallows before he was all the way ripe?

…Now, I got me plenty of that

—Small bits and sea salt too; all’s of them I flipped over my shoulder, when I oughta have,,,

…Hold your steps close, the Waif continued, as we come close upon our house in the Outskirts of the Township, a good half hour or more walk from the slouching waters of the Shallows theyselves—

—Watch the slick, watch the slick …

—You is coming into the slick, the Waif continued–jus’ close as you can, jus’ watch the slick, close as you can—

And as we walked, just over our heads, there angled fawning limbs of broken Baobabs, which, according to village lore, long ago had split themselves upside down and inside out, in shadowed protest of an especially long and unforgiving dry season—  

During that season, it was said, the air had run hot, and the skin of our cows had draped as tarps hung by bones; wells bloomed with rot, windows half woven with disgust and grief…

—Watch the slick, watch the slick, whispered the Waif again, her lips plush to my ear …

—Watch the slick, watch the slick, she said—Watch the slick, watch the slick

—Yes ma’am—I replied–yes ma’am, yes ma’am…

And so we continued, coiled firm to the march, until we come to be arrived, at last, the four of us, back at our home, which was spent and weathered, rust-roofed, crumbling, uneasily squat, right next to our neighbor’s bleached, white bone home, the one with the oak carved door and the flesh colored handle.

We is where we is, I said—

We is where we is, the Waif come to say…

Now, you just keep him wet, I come then to hear her say, after pause..

—jus’ square yourself, square your shoulders, lift your knees, step easy away, an’ fast…

Yes ma’am, I come to reply.

—yes ma’am, yes ma’am.

…Its gonna pass, Grandmama interrupted—nothing like that gonna stay calm forever.  

Yes ma’am—

—yes ma’am, yes ma’am…

‘Cause its supposed to be that way, Grandmama continued—to make him clean and proper how he supposed to have been.  

So he don’t look tired on no more..

—Hold ‘im shallow—Grandmama thundered then, but not ‘till you hear the Lord rumbled to your ear—Hold ‘im shallow–an’ hold him tight.  Don’t let him slip none—

Yes ma’am—

–yes ma’am, yes ma’am…

Get somethin’ in you, all y’all—Grandmama said next, settled curious and proper before the stove—you ain’t no use to nobody starving…

Yes ma’am—I said gratefully, when the food was set delicate before me—I appreciate you, I do… 

…well have some more then—Grandmama clucked—no use running  on an empty belly.  

Gonna  need your strength and some…

And so I done that, had my fill. Chewed slow, deliberate, had my fill. Looked close on the Boy, looked close on the Waif, who chewed deliberate some, slow some too.

Later, Grandmama would watch me close as the Waif fidgeted in place—close as she pretended best as she could that the white that had blanched and curdled the room wasn’t nothing more than a precious hiccup, wasn’t no more than a single blade of grass, wilted and angled wrong into the wind—

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

We got time, it’s what we got, 

We got time we do…

Now, he do squirm a bit, I mumbled to the Waif, as I hoisted the Boy up firm into my arms, after I had ate me enough to get me some strength—he feels a wet stone in my hands.  He got a mind fixed on the stars, he do… 

Figurin’ we should wash him up some more? 

—figurin’ that might help?  You see no kind of harm in that?

-In truth, I replied, not none so far as I can figure.

…I still don’t see how that’s gonna change much

—don’t see how that’s gonna change up the weather, or much else at all..

Wrong, she come to say.

Wrong, you is.

Wrong.

Wrong.

And I looked down then, again, upon the Boy, whose eyes was darting here and there.  And I could see that something was giving him the fits, that something was working him raw in his gut—

Get to prayin’ as you is, the Waif said then—Get on about your business.  He got to get as proper as he can, and quick-like, he do…

Yes ma’am—

—Yes ma’am, Yes ma’am…

–He trying to get held by his father be all

–Just need some attention.  

–All childs is like that, far as that goes.  So, of course he squirm a bit—

—You think its gonna work? The Waif asked next—Why you thinkin’ that Boy gonna listen to a word you got to say?  

—He ain’t that precious in his ways, though sometime it do seem he do be—

…Hard to tell, in a boy like that—

—him being how he be.  Hard to tell…

—Get to prayin’ as you is—Get about your business.  

—He got to get as proper as he can be…

Yes ma’am—I had replied–yes ma’am, yes ma’am…

And so, I had thought hard on them words, as I had first set off walking away from our home, after my strength come back, headed back as I was, toward the Shallows, with the Boy’s head fixed to the smallest of my elbow, and his feet wrapped tight, in a frayed woolen blanket, near the mid of my palm.   

—I’m just figurin’ on how he come to be blessed in the first place, I shouted back to the Waif…

He gonna need blessings, you right on that, she reply, even as I continued down the homely path, slouching toward the Shallows, stumblin’ on occasion, arms fixed as a cross, firm to the Boy—  

Gonna need blessings and sugar, the Waif had said, voice fading, even as she come to slouch steady toward our neighbor’s old wooden home—gonna need proper attention and the proper good Word…

It had leaned uncomfortably to the side, the old wooden home, and it seemed almost to protest its fate and placement, to the world, to the dust, to the dry, to everything.  It smelled faintly of morning glory blossoms and root-red sod; Our neighbor’s old wooden home, belonging to the man in white, with the oak-heavy door, with the flesh colored handle, that old wooden home.

—Hold ‘im, don’t drop him, the Waif come to say to me, while I still been in earshot—hold ‘im close, don’t drop him…

—He gonna drip hisself clean. He gonna be just clean as he supposed to be.

…  Yes am’am, Yes ma’am…

He gonna fix up soon, I figure, the Waif continued—

–He ain’t got no choice in the matter, not truly how it be…

—plain as the rain it be  

Waters gonna flood some, I had shouted, even as I walked further, carrying just as honest as I could the Boy who come to be my son, who always been that, who in point of fact, couldn’t never be no ‘nother.

—The Boy gonna need all kind of cotton, all kinds as be clean and fair, the Waif shouted then…

Just make him proper, 

—Just make him clean as he be…

Yes ma’am—I come to reply–Yes ma’am, yes ma’am—

And then the Waif, she continued her trek toward the oak heavy door, toward the man in white, toward the pearl white handle, flushed and worn as it ever was to be.  And as she walked, she had clumsily sidestepped the pig weeds, which were flourished in clumps, near where our stray was staked naked to a short iron pole, forever shearing a ten foot ring into the salmon colored earth; which, with each stumbling turn, squirmed into black beneath his feet—

Wrong, I come to think to myself as she walked.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

But didn’t say nothing of course.  My tongue become useless to such topics since long ago, paralyzed, limp, impotent. So I come to bury my sight, and my wagging, and I done what him as placed me upon this Earth to do.  Save my boy, of course.  My boy.

—These seeds ain’t seen me proper, the Waif mumbled cross to herself, as she spied in her path weeds savaged by prize flowers and plunging vines alike.

—I has spilled out my share of earth an’ blood, an’ this be what comes back sure to haunt me, she come to say.

Shallows gonna flood some, I whispered, soft- cadenced, as I walked—you gonna need all kind of cotton, for sure he is, for sure he is…

—Just like we wasn’t even ever to be known proper at all, you and me.  Just like that it be—

By then, of course, the Waif come to knock on that door, and I had kept my eyes down, but still I could not help but see, clear in my minds eye, though in truth I was too far to see: there stood the man with the no-looking eye, an individual of no kinda real curiosity, gifted with loose, sloppy words, who been our neighbor for several long and not easily forgettable years. 

You here? I s’posed the man come to say to the Waif.

Here I be at.

Soon be enough.

—I been just about choking on this dust been kicked up here lately.  Soon enough it be…

The Waif placed then her hand upon the flesh colored handle, and downward she had pressed lightly, and inward she had nudged slightly, and across the threshold she had stepped softly, as though it been blood, now dried, had brushed and coated and softened the soles of her feet, to make her steps proper, and polite, and, maybe even forgivable. 

This I could see as clear to my minds eye, as if the Waif wasn’t no more than a few barefoot steps in front of me.  

It do be that, the Waif come to say to the man—

like there aint nothin’ else to ponder.  Simple as the rain it be.  

All you gotta do is notice.  Open wide your eyes be all…

Then he smiled.  She smiled.  The door had closed then, and I was in my minds eye blind to all else that come to pass just then.

An’ by that time, by the end of my s’posin’, me an’ the Boy, we was arrived, where we was at, proper an’ humble, just proper an’ humble we was.

—Jus’ square yourself, square your shoulders, lift your knees, an’ step easy away—

Then make him clean as you do…

—proper enough to swim the Shallows.  The both of you.

An’ then, holding the Boy close, I come to pray hard at the Shallows, I did; Dreamt of the Shallows; sung quiet to the Boy the words of a song that come to pass in the long, long ago.  Took form and substance in a kind of dream that wasn’t in truth no kind of dream at all, was more a spell kinda thing, if anything it been:

The Old Man don’t love nothing he don’t love.  The Old Man can’t see nothin’ he can’t see..

The Old Man don’t love nothing he don’t love.  The Old Man can’t see nothin’ he can’t see..

And just because: there been at that moment nothin’ in front of me in the form of laughter and hurt; or shame an;’ grace, or the quietest of the blackest of the waves swirling hurriedly within the night. I come to feel cleansed, new, reborn to the Township, to the Shallows, and I is known.

And I do come to remember:

—You know he ain’t never gonna hold you right, never gonna know you right, that’s what the Waif come to say, first time she seen me see my Boy.

—He ain’t never gonna see you proper, she come to say—not like you is his own.

—You ain’t nothing but lost to him, that’s how you is and is gonna be…

You know who I is, I had whispered to the Boy….

—I is your papa, an’ I has loved you since the beginning, an’ I is gonna fix you precious in the end—

And so it been clearer than it could ever be, that this place where I been at, this ordination I come to fulfill: I come to make the Boy, my Boy, not nobody else’s, my kin, just as clean and as honest as he could be; until there he was where always he was, and I come to imagine him in perfect light however he would could come to rest: white-shouldered, face-down, eyes fixed to the well of the Shallows below.

Amen.

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Makambo Tshionyi, MD, is a neurologist in private practice in the Seattle area.  Previous fiction work has appeared in New Orleans Review, Chattahoochee Review, 14 Hills, Epiphany, Sand.  He loves especially the Oregon Coast in Winter.

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7 October 2022