In the rain what will be remembered of your face does not blur so easily
and I see so clearly
the wonderful, seasonal, leaf-brown shading of your eyes piercing thru the large pane of shop glass as you jump the space between awnings trying not to get wet
I see you remembering to smile then scrunching your face when an already couple bumps into you and just like that you slide back into the weather and your hair drinks what drips from the beast that has become this night’s sky
From this booth I cannot save you not even in my manliest imagination not even in the best years of my faster boyhood not even not hardly no way
so, when you do not fall into the drink but instead bend at the knees and waist and waggle your hips into a brake
the sound that comes from me does not match my facade
Every day since first looking into the falling stream that was your face watching helplessly you slipping and grinding and stopping yourself in the rain
the way you held on stood pat hung in there never minding the fools behind with their outstretched, dry hands and apologies instead, shaking it off and finding me in that deliberate, slow turn of your drenched face dry inside at a booth then winking
it is hard to image how I will stop myself from falling for you like fat drops of April rain
my fingers down thru your head’s drenched curls across the wet waving line of your brow racing in swirls over the bridge of your nose rimming silver slivers ’round your flared nostrils before landing and lacing and beading into the grace on your full lips
I am already learning to love the way that you hold your mouth already slipping already being pushed by wanting what these other couples have are willing to race thru full streets clearing pathways and already full spaces beneath awnings where some other not-yet-loved fool is trying not to get this wonderfully wet
One year, when we were still a family living in the white frame house on Morrell Street in Dallas, Texas, we ate beans and rice or collard greens nearly every day. Later that year, while out for Christmas break, we got used to inviting some new kids in with us for dinner. Of course, we were used to the food by then, but it was the first time that I had heard and got a different understanding of the phrase, “Like they going out of style“.
There were five kids in our family and we dared not flinch when those words came across the sparse dinner table from my brother’s invited friend, a boy called “Meatball”. He was squat, dark-hued, round with a bushel of uncombed hair and gave off the suggested shape of a big, well, meat ball. His rather large family was new to a duplex further down the hill that was Morrell Street. Even in the colder months most of them spilled out onto the porch and yard during non-sleeping hours. Up and down that block all of our families were just making due, but even our construction-job injured Stepfather had encouraged us to invite and share with the kids whenever possible.
Meatball didn’t bother looking up from his fast moving spoon through a bowl of crumbled cornbread and black-eyed peas. Even though he had used the bathroom sink to clean up it was not hard to find patches of differing colored dirt streaking his scrawny, short sleeved arm and pointy elbow as he ate. We had already prayed, passed the cornbread and Kool-Aid. Now, we waited on a spoon of steaming collard greens from a big, worn pot that sat at one end of the table when he blurted up, “Ya’ll eat beans like they going out of style!”.
We just kept passing our plates from one person to the next and waited for them to return with a layered serving of meatless collard greens. Secretly, we all hoped for one of the bacon or salt jowl halves that seasoned the greens, but that succulent meat often landed on our Stepfather’s plate. Meatball did not pass his plate. He continued to feast on the certainty of his beans and dodged the long arms that reached, grabbed and ignored his sloppy chewing. With all the plates in place our Stepfather called to the little complainer, “Gimme yo’ plate, son“. A moment passed before my brother grabbed and handed off the boy’s crumb-littered plate. Meatball started chewing faster.
For the second time that day neither of us five flinched as Meatball’s plate of hot collards was passed back to him. Mixed into the feathery stack of greens were the two curling halves of thick sliced, red meat and water pearled bacon fat. Again, the pain mellowed bass of our Stepfather’s words wafted toward Meatball, “You reckon dat fatback might be in style, Meatboy?”His mispronunciation kicked a big laugh into the room and nearly everybody corrected him, “It’s MEAT BALL, Mr. Howard“. It was the first time since being injured and returning home from two months of traction in a hospital bed that he smiled big and laughed a full throated guffaw. The bacon slipped in and out of Meatball’s greasy lipped mouth and the room grew brighter with his addictive and toothy grin.
It would be a few more months of beans and greens and visits from Meatball and others hoping for the fatback on their plates, but never from us five. Big laughs came slowly back into the white house at 1423 Morrell after the “meat boy” meal. There was new job with less pain and risk of injury for our slow moving Mr. Howard. Around the same time there was Christmas and five thunderous, overflowing, cellophane covered fruit baskets with hard, awkward nuts and candy canes with a single wrapped present. It all got shared on our screened-in porch, along with other toys from up and down Morrell Street…and the echoing, baritone laughter from just inside the door.
Jas. C. Mardis is a Poet, Quilter and Storyteller. He is a 2014 Inductee into the Texas Literary Hall of Fame.
Photo credit: Rosskam, Edwin, 1903-, Farm Security Administration – Office of War Information Photograph Collection 1938