Monday, December 5, 2011

She Was the First

November 28, 2011

And if only the only.

In the shadow of several others, She waited. You displayed generosity in the form of your skillful beauty, any from which I could pick. It was on first sight I knew She was the only one I could take; the only one I wanted.

Above the fireplace She was hung. The splendor of many a house guest's loving compliment; the envy of a roommate's striving ability; the pride of a grandson's grandfather.

While relaxing on the couch, She blew dreams from her wispy skies of a future where I'd be a farmer. While studying, She lended motivation to agony's worth-while ends. While passing, She wrote inklings of what the land demands from us, and what it promises in return. Then in Her blades of maize, I saw the fields... they flowed.

Your phone call was received as a blessing. My response was to be a consolation. Your words were to be a nightmare.

One day a regular came, to take his pick of my grandfather's created beauties. On hearing of Her beauty, he asked for Her. My grandfather thought Her to be lost or destroyed, forgetting Her place with me, so he borne Her a sister.

On seeing Her face a year later, in my grandfather a fever grew. Weeks later he asked for Her to be gone by my mother's grasp on Her neck. Even though, months ago, I told him She was with me, he was ecstatic. Innocent though confused was the other's birth, why couldn't the situation be explained? That was too practical. I offered to trade Her for Her sister, so distantly She'd live on, but that was too unprofessional.

The dagger finally flew and splayed the heart when he said that that regular thought Her sister to be Her, and there to be no other. If white would be mother's bloody hands, then black he would find his soul. 

Scales shrunk and She came to see Her fields' end. Foregoing Her harvest She was raped, though gently, for it was the will of god that She leave Her earth. She was a painting in the way of Her artist's integrity. White did Her blood run. Silent She went, so for Her I screamed.

She was my muse. She was my him. By killing Her he had killed himself in me, and in Her white-washing nearly killed me too. Worth less than the customer's patronage, the importance of the grandson and that gift was sacrificed to hide the truth of his illegitimate daughter.

If it was a mistake
Then I'll start my tears.
If you lied to keep your hide
Then I'll offer you a cheer,
For when cowardice is the Lord's will,
Who are we to say no?

The dreams She awoke in me will hold me on toward a season of plenty. If you didn't see through the pigments on Her face to that land of promise, then how do you hope to live past the end?

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