Ladybugs

Memories stretch back in the distance and our parents preserve them for us. We carry them forward to each succeeding generation in the form of stories, inherited shapes, and navels. Reaching back into those dim shades I remember the jungle and the soft, warm rain that intermittently forced us to hide under the trees. When I was a child everything was new and exciting. But as an adult I learned to dread those long stretches of boredom and angst.

The only respite from the long slog through life was the brief glimpses of the past.  She wore red panties with black polka dots, reminding me of ladybugs. The trees swayed to the rhythm of the unseen wind and monkeys howled. I would lay my ear against her belly and try to breathe in her magical cunt fumes. Time was meaningless unless we were hungry or if it got dark. The city hadn’t been built yet.

The tribal leaders try to prepare you for death. What they don’t teach you is that death is a bodily function, like spitting or farting. She was gone quickly and with her went her scents, her textures, and ladybug colours. Loss brings an unseen visitor: grief. Grief moves in with you and lives with you. Every day you see it above you in the branches, or across the street and standing on a corner. A man crosses the street in the rain carrying a dog who wears a raincoat. A taxi honks and the trees sway.  Grief punches you hard and you forget how to breathe.

The city was built long after that and the memories stretch back to her. I grabbed a handful of dirt and dropped some clods on her casket. I tried to force myself to feel something.