The ceramic statue of Jesus crashed to the floor. Wounded from an earlier misfortune, it was weak. The head reattached with glue, now lay separated from the body. Jesus survived the first fall, a few days prior. He had fallen off the baker's rack and onto Chestnut’s head. When it hit her, the head of the statue broke from the body. This fall left him shattered in great chunks like a kindergarten jigsaw puzzle. The head remained in good condition, lifeless staring eyes. Lips frozen in a Mona Lisa smile.
I stared at it angrily, listening to the sounds of grown folks waging war. Our Mother fighting back, playing the harlot, as the Word called it. Protecting her face from the unmerciful blows of a man who fiddled with fatherhood and loved Mother so much he called her “Snow.”
Violent thoughts took flight inside my head; after all, I am my father's daughter. A butcher's knife on the counter in the kitchen had a star on its edge. Twinkle, twinkle. I bet myself that if I wished hard enough it would magically appear in my ten-year-old hand. While wishing, I hoped for the skill of Zorro for I had never maneuvered a weapon through the carcass of an animal. I had the simplistic skill of carving seasoned meat with a helpless steak knife but nothing more. No amount of wishing brought it to my hand. I was in too much pain and anger to reach for it.
On top of Jesus abandoning me and my Mother fighting for her life, cramps rose like oceanic waves in the southern region of my stomach. I almost welcomed the new pain; it took my mind off the reduction of Mother's womanhood. I had never witnessed Mother out of control, sweating, yelling and screaming, in her bra and panties with the scar on her stomach still fresh from the surgery two days before.
He hit over and over, dedicated and focused, as if she were a punching bag for sport. Whether she fought back or not, he was determined to whip her into the shape he desired.
This is love.
This is love?
His body moved like the men who work on chain-gangs, like a man in the ring fighting for the championship belt, like men in the streets battling for a spot against a storefront wall, like a man leaping from a ledge swinging his arms wildly while going down down down.
Grown folks making war. Grown folks making love. All is fair. Jesus was there with his head removed, pieces of body strewn about the hard wood floor.
I rose from my slouching slumber and pounced. Underneath shoeless feet, I made sure he would rise no more teasing me with unrealistic promises. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Though sharp and jagged, I crushed the remaining pieces beneath tender feet and did not shudder at the sight of blood. I did so, until the statue was reduced to powder. Like my father, I was determined to whip the pieces into the shape I desired.
Footprints in the sand?
I don't wanna hear it!
You said you'd be there, in my darkest hour. Where were you? Hiding in the closet with my sisters? Sitting on a baker's rack next to a cow filled with chocolate chip cookies?
Did you die on the cross long before my sister killed you with her hard head? Don't say you interceded, Mother still walked away with a black eye, self-esteem held together by the threads of a shredded dress torn from her body by a man you created in your image. Don't say it made me stronger, because it didn't kill me. There are other ways to die!
You said if I cast out demons in your name, it would be so. Yet, time and time again the demon returned; day and night, driving a Lincoln Continental, following us on this Earth until we reached its oceanic end. Only to bring us back to the other side again. You said you'd be and all I saw was a statue, so weak and frail that I, in my developing-womanhood, crushed you to powder beneath bare feet.
(Excerpt from Small Pleasures: Mya's Story. Copyright 2011 Darnishia Bolden)
