Crickets' Serenade
Page 37
“Staying on or just passing t’rough?” he asked.
“Passing t’rough. I have to get back home to me daughter.”
“All right den. Next time you in Stepney, no just passing t’rough. Den we cyan drink a likkle an’ talk a likkle.” He waved and moved on.
Before I returned to Jamaica, Michele had gotten so sick, she spent most of her time bed-ridden. One of her biggest fears had been that Red would unload her onto her parents, since she couldn’t pull her own weight. She shared this fear with Winston on a day he had come to visit the children. A week later, he was dividing his time between tending his own plot of land in Stepney and helping Red work the expansive field he owned in Nine Mile. The two men often worked side by side in the hot sun with hardly a word passing between them. They co-existed this way because of their one common bond—Michele—who loved Red, and who was still loved by Winston.
After winding my way across the church yard and through the gated area from which several tombstones peeked out, I found myself standing in front of a short, squared off headstone. I still had trouble believing my best friend was gone. We didn’t communicate much once I left for America. It wasn’t until I returned to Jamaica and visited with Tommy Blackshire that I learned of Michele’s death in eighty-seven of the same ailment her little brother had died of two decades before; sickle cell anemia.
I knelt down beside Michele’s gravestone, brushed away some of the dirt that had been deposited there, then placed the bougainvillea alongside it. I ran my fingers across the letters that had been chiseled into the cement and smiled.
“Well, me frien’, seem dat all de people who evah shape me life is gone now. Me know Lewis is up dere wit’ you. Don’t give him too much of a hard time. Me finally see dat him have him reasons fe doing what him do. Since you know de ropes up dere, please keep an eye on him fe me. An’ tell him me like Beethoven’s Nint’ an’ me know who Vivaldi is now, but it still don’t come anywhere close to reggae.” I brushed away the final few wayward leaves. “Well, I t’ink you house is all clean now, me frien’.”
I stretched out on the grass next to Michele’s grave and looked off into the heavens. It was quiet and peaceful behind the church. Solitaires called out sadly. The tree leaves moved softly, as if they were showing reverence. I inhaled deeply, shut my eyes, and I welcomed the warmth of the sun against my face.
About the Author
Carolita Blythe, a Syracuse University graduate, was born in Kingston, Jamaica and grew up in Brooklyn, New York. She now lives in Los Angeles, where she works as a script supervisor on television shows. An avid traveler, she counts standing in the shadows of the Taj Mahal and boating down the Nile as two of her most inspiring travel moments. She spends her summers worshiping the New York Yankees and her winters looking forward to summer so she can worship the New York Yankees.
Contact Carolita at:
lftuhura@aol.com