Poignantly Yours.

It was a sweet-sapping summer. The summer they killed Floyd, and I was lost in Minnesota. The news kept parroting a running commentary, and I couldn’t help the eel-sliver feeling that started in my belly and traveled to my back. I’m a dog about death. Something cold and waxy. I guess that’s what comes from a father who dumps you in a room with dead bodies at six and expects you to watch as he messes around. I couldn’t stand the thought of being dead, and was already, in a way, lost in a city where death was the only thing you heard.

That was hell for me.

It was overrun by demons at that time, with the rain drizzling a soft liqueur finish till the subways smelled like stale piss. All the dust they kicked up during the riots settled like cold air at the back of my throat. It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn’t help feeling guilty as if the glass on the sidewalks was my fault.

But the guilt only hit me on my way to work. I had moved to Minnesota from New York, after college. I had gotten a degree in something or other - worked an office job. Nothing substantial enough to enjoy, but enough to allow me the comfort of living outside city limits. Well enough, I guess. It kept me away from the fires and burning tires, but only served to make the walk that much more depressing.

I don’t know what ever possessed me to move to Minnesota. I only knew two people in the whole city. Abner, a friend from university - and Belle. Abner was more of an associate, insistent upon my presence, which served to make his douchebaggery tolerable. Abner was. . . but Belle was special - an enigma. She was the neighbor who threw rocks at my window, determined to play with the sad-eyed loner next door. She was the neighbor who threatened to drown me if I didn’t dunk her back. And she was the neighbor, who, eventually, budding and beautiful turned to a new happiness.

I hadn’t seen either one of them since their housewarming a year ago. Belle, swollen and full, and Abner, a peacock amongst his treasures. He hadn’t spoken to me much then, I sat in the corner nursing a vodka, till like any man jaded by luck I went driving down the boulevard drunk and displaced. I guess he knew my feelings, or, if not him, then Belle. One of them at least, so I guess I was surprised, pleasantly or not when they visited me that summer.

They pulled into my driveway around eleven. I could hear the screeching tires and tittering laughter before they even pulled up. My living room was drab. Furnished by a man with limited taste, and I realized that there was nothing I owned of which to be proud. There was no pity behind that thought, for all my contentment, I really didn’t care, but I couldn’t allow Abner to see it. I left my scotch on ice and stepped onto the porch.

He was already there, standing imperiously on my lawn, hands on hips, some sort of god, same scornful sneer on his thin lips. He shook my hand absentmindedly and then, abruptly, “nice.” He gestured uselessly before letting his hand drop to his thigh with a meaty slap. Belle laughed, a tinkering thing that went up and up in a breathy purr.

“Ghost!” She laughed again, that foolish laugh, and I found myself chuckling. “I really can’t think,” she hiccuped, charmingly and then, leaning forward conspiratorally, “we got a baby sitter for the day. Nana got herself the baby.”

Abner slapped me on the back. “Memphis my man . . .” He stared intently into my face as if searching for something.

He was a man built like a rock. Spoke like a rock, deep in his throat. He spoke like he was spitting out each word. He held himself in as if he were bursting, or ready to burst out of the tailor-fitting suit he wore. Like a flimsy cell of sorts, the bow tie choked his words back down into his throat, silencing him. No matter; his wife seemed content to speak for the both of us.

“This is a nice place you got here. . .” she searched my face, piercing me with that inexpressible vitality she held inside; like a milk crystal, she seemed to reflect my own visage back to me.

“. . . such a nice place; and the weather just right.” And then she whispered, or maybe it was her dress that whispered; that soft white dress that clung silkily here - loosely taken with the wind there - whispered huskily; “you deserve it Memphis.”

She muttered on, something about Sylvia, and the only fool thought I could conjure was fireflies.

With the name of my mother, she seemed to fizzle out, retreating back into herself. I glanced over at Abner, but his soul seemed to be wandering on Belles’ face. The silent storm crept up my lawn and towards the porch. . .

The silence dragged on.

Abner loosened his bow tie, cleared his throat, and opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He tried again.

“I’ve been reading -”

“He’s been reading -,” his wife interrupted. I glanced at the two. He had said his piece with such conviction, and his wife with a misery that drowned her ocean-blue eyes.

“I’ve been reading,” glanced at Belle. “I’ve been reading up on theory. You know, like Ole Gibbs used to teach us at university. “Somehow his reference to our younger years annoyed me and seemed to trivialize his point. I stopped listening.

Mutter. . . mutter. . . mutter. Gab - gab - gab. On and on he droned. Somewhere in between he and Belle got into an argument. Her pleasant voice rose and fell like chimes and even the approaching horror - even the approaching storm - stopped to listen. At one point Belle had commenced crying.

“Oh, how cruel! Memphis; do you hear how this big brute talks to me? How cruel, and me his wife.” And Abner standing off by himself in the corner muttering curses in an incessant stream. And bit by bit his cursing ceased, as if each word had slowly removed his anger. Shoulders slumped he turned to look at me, his normal pepper-grey eyes shot through with pain.

“And I’ve been wondering,” and here he turned to Belle who had ceased crying and was vengefully beheading the imitation roses on my front step. “And I’ve been wondering - what is the meaning of this circus.” Then we all thought of Sylvia, and the conversation died. The heads of a dozen red roses littered my steps, and I couldn’t help thinking that those roses would grow new roses right there in the concrete.

Then the storm pounced.

“Abner, you hulking idiot. You fool. What do you know, you read some books -”

“Let’s go home -” and then, if by afterthought, “honey. I’m sorry about this Memphis.” An apologetic grin.

“You’re sorry?” Belle was screeching now. “You go on speaking on demons and bringing up ghost. You ruined our evening.” She crossed her arms over her ample chest and pursed her lips.

“I - I’m so sorry Memphis.” He looked miserable.

His wife ran, tripping over cracks in the concrete. “Sylvia. . . Sylvia,” she muttered, stumbling like a drunkard.

The sound of a door slamming, and Abner's heavy footsteps pounding after her. “Goodnight. . . Goodnight,” I muttered. A second car door slamming, pealing off into the amber-lit night, and I wondered if they would ever pull into my driveway again.