Grey With Jasmine

Dawn Liddicoatt

The moon is not out tonight. That's a good thing. I peek through my door, cracked slightly open, before moving out into the night. Some nights are so black here I cannot see my hand held out at arm's length - seems like I'm disappeared. Not there. Nothingness. Tonight is not like that, though it would be good if it were. Tonight clouds make the background grey. I can see silhouettes of coconut palms against the grey. No people - they have all gone to bed. No lanterns lit on porches or glowing through windows. No silhouettes of people moving against the grey. No people sounds in the village, only the steady roll of waves on the shore, the sweet chirp of ground toads, soft whir of palmetto wings, gentle breeze rustling tall palms overhead, the staccato, echoey plunk of a falling coconut meeting the ground in the distance.

I step out on my porch. The hard dirt is slightly cool under my cracked and callused feet, despite the thickly warm, heavy air which captures me soon as I'm free of my house, practically carries me to the soft spot in my front yard. My feet are wet, so pick up loose bits of dirt as I move to this spot. We keep the grounds clear, clear and swept daily to discourage snakes from coming to our homes.

It's been thirty weeks since the blood stopped flowing, so it is too soon, yet I've known it would happen this way. I've been digging in the dirt for a week or so, preparing a small plot out front to plant some nice white flowers to reflect the moonlight. I haven't planted yet, but it doesn't matter tonight since the moon isn't shining down, no light shining down on me, no light to guide me, and so it's ok that my flowers are not yet planted. I smell night blooming jasmine from the bushes nearby, though, fragrant and sweet and surrounding me full in the thick air, filling my nostrils, my pores, encouraging me, providing something beautiful and comforting on this thick grey moonless night. On hands and knees, I dig out the softened, prepared earth. Slow and steady, liking the cool, gritty feel on my fingers, my palms, not minding at all the collecting dirt in my fingernails. It is fine. It is as it should be.

My timing is right since the pains are coming stronger each time. Soon I have to stop digging each time, arch my back up to the moonless grey, tuck my head to the ground and close my eyes Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses each time.

OK. The digging is done, the timing is good, the air is thick and sweet and holding me completely. I crouch over the hole, white skirt covering my bent knees, my feet, as if I am not inside this space at all - maybe I am not. I see my brown arms wrap around my skirted knees and know I am here, it is me still and this is still true. The sharp tang of saltwater air burns through sweet jasmine, fills my nostrils with truth, with life, with life about to be. Ocean pounds against the shore with sudden and rapid voracity, ferocity, as if it wants to take something back. The ground beneath me trembles, I shake. My body opens wide.

Yes, please! Take it back! Take it back! Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with Thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. Holy Mary mother of God pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death amen.

It is small and wet and dark and moves little at the bottom of the hole. I bury the fruit in this space in this soft prepared earth in my yard. I pat down the grey dirt carefully, smooth it nicely making soft grey circles and circles and circles under my flattened palm. It is soft and smooth…and helpless.

It is quiet.

I rub grey dirt on my blood-sticky legs. Soon I cannot see dark blood anymore, just soft caked grey powder against grey background. It is so quiet and so thick and so fragrant and the air is so heavy tonight it carried me to this place. It coaxed me and coddled me and now I am soft and grey and it is done. It is quiet. The moon is not out tonight.

The End

Author’s Bio: Dawn Liddicoatt is a member of the Gwendolyn Brooks Writers' Collective in Chicago.