A mosquito net surrounds the four-poster bed and traps the still air. The tiniest movement multiplies the dense heat. My sweat dampens the bed sheets.
It’s a moonless night. I lay with eyes wide open in the dark room listening to the night creatures. Grasshoppers and crickets chirp all night. Cats meow. An occasional dog lets out a howl. Coquis croak their love song.
A dove begins a mournful coo. Soon the whole flock joins the night’s cacophony. I cover myself head to toes with the damp sheets. According to legend, doves coo at night only when they see ghosts.
“It beats me black and blue,” wails Rihanna followed by unprintable words then “must be love on the brain.”
Those words stick in my brain conjuring negative scenarios. When is it acceptable for violence to equate love? Are these allusions to the antiquated notions of bad boy overpowers helpless damsel? Or savage lovemaking between two people that cannot keep away from each other despite destructive behavior? The only image that surfaces is of a broken down Rihanna beaten to a pulp by her then boyfriend. The lyrics do not heal in this me-too generation. They perpetuate twisted interpretations of love.
Brown leaves danced and twirled before their graceful landing. One by one and in pairs they piled beneath the tree. It had been years since Ellen had witnessed the beauty of fall. Leaves in the islands fell from trees when the unforgiving sun scorched them or if the tree were dying. In Brooklyn, they turned from greens to yellows and reds. After their final descent, they lay fallow protecting roots from the inevitable winter.
Ellen inhaled deeply expecting freshly cut green grass. Alas summer had passed. Instead, musty air filled her lungs, a by-product from the accumulation of dead leaves.
The light turned yellow. A sanitation truck barreled down the avenue to beat the light. It stirred the settled leaves. Debris flew in every direction.
Instinctively Ellen shut her eyes and for once was grateful to be wearing eyeglasses. She shook her hair and picked off bits of dried leaves, stems and the occasional acorn shells. She unzipped her bomber jacket. The faux suede from the TSS fall collection was the rage of the season. TSS was the bargain store in the area, a staple in the working class neighborhood. She tugged her green sweater and wiped her glasses clean.
Old Man Monse spent most days rocking himself in his hammock and chewing tobacco then spitting into a coffee can. He only got up when it was time to relief himself but struggled to reach the latrine on time. His once erect back was hunched; his eyes fixed on the ground watching his every step. Hard to believe this was the town’s Judge; the very man who spied the pretty girls when they fetched water. Girls shuddered in fear when they’d notice the judge touch himself when he stared. Now they ridiculed Old Man Monse who had always lacked self-control.
We like to think our doggies have a sixth sense. They sit beside us when we feel under the weather or our spirits hit rock bottom. Their gesture brings us comfort. Truth is, dogs detect scents that escape us ordinary humans. They sniff our physiological changes and go into caring mode. Sometimes they retreat and bark from a distance and we fret that they’re in a bad mood. In reality, they’ve detected a new scent.
So it was with my sister. Her poodle growled and barked angrily when she came home from work. He knew that the cancer had returned.
Not a great way to end 2017. My person, my sister, is running out of options in her battle against metastatic breast cancer. I’ve been expecting it, of course, but it doesn’t diminish the lurch in my gut.
I’ve been sick to my stomach, literally. Is it the flu or the noro-virus that has been rampant across our nation early this winter season? Maybe, but most likely it’s that sixth sense when it comes to my sister. I don’t experience it with anyone else, just her. I feel sick at the same time that she’s going through something and we don’t even live in the same state.
We have not lived in the same state since 1979. She went to live in Pennsylvania while I remained in New York. She returned to New York and I moved to Florida. I returned to New York and she went to New Hampshire. I’m currently in New Jersey and she’s in Florida. But her soul is stuck to mine as if we were twins.
We’re not twins, by the way. She’s my baby sister.
My baby sister has been fighting for her life for 9 years now. And her options have narrowed dramatically. Pain has increased tremendously. And all I can do is sit here numb. Letting my fingers fly across a keyboard to express my wail. The wail I cannot and will not let her hear.
Yokahú overlooks El Yunque, a fertile rainforest in la Isla del Encanto with its own climate and ecosystem. Stand atop the 142-story tower and close your eyes. Listen to waterfalls, rare birds, and tree frogs indigenous to the land. Take in the true scent of green. Open your eyes and witness to the north the Atlantic Ocean lapping Luquillo.
Ave Maria, what horrors befell on September 20th? Winds pulled trees from their roots like a giant picking off lint from its shirt. The brave mountains fought back. They battered the ferocious storm, but not without loss. Mangled trees lie everywhere.
The story held Reader Dan captive. He shook his legs and rotated his neck. He needed to walk away and digest the story line, but the make believe world sucked him in completely. After all, a good story elicits gasps and giggles, tears and white knuckles. Storylines worm their way through brain cells rendering the reader incapable of other activity until the satisfying conclusion. Dan indulged his imagination. He grabbed Popchips and went back to the novel.
Writer Dan, though, died a little at the end of each chapter. He knew full well that he’d never match such excellent standards.