True
A stream of consciousness project set to the album by Lambert.
1. Porcelain
Fragile. She reads the red letters. Fragile. Why does seeing these words make her want to kick the small box, destroy everything that’s inside? Over and over. Why? At the same time, she’s scared to go near it. Over and over. Why? Come on, mister, I’m your sister. Misplaced words from nowhere float in and out and in and out again. She checks the box for an address. Carefully. None. She checks the box for a name. Carefully. None. Just that one scary word. She takes off her jacket and wraps it around the box, treating it how she supposes someone with more experience might treat something fragile. Like an injured bird, perhaps. Like a bruised heart. With shivering hands against the cold, she unlocks the door and walks into warmth. Orange lights, yellow tones. Smell of burnt coffee with cinnamon.
“Luz? You home?” Her voice tiptoes through the room.
“In here, amor.” Another voice, a deep familiar one, tiptoes back.
She carries the box wrapped in her coat to where Luz is curled up on the couch. When Luz asks if she ordered something, she regrets not taking the box immediately to her room. Why? Again, she has the urge to kick, destroy. Not the box, though. Something, anything else. Over and over. Why?
“I don’t know, I found it on our porch. No name or address. It’s fragile, I guess. Should I open it?” Feigning disinterest. Over and over. Why?
Luz nods and shrugs her shoulders. Feigning disinterest. Over and over. Why? Come on mister, I’m your sister. The words from nowhere circle back around. Luz’s jet-black hair, so thick and shiny, spreads over the blanket and onto her lap. She has an impulse to stroke it, but stops. With key still in hand, she makes a cut down the middle of the box, along a single line of clear tape. No paper, no bubble wrap. No protection for something supposedly so fragile. Hands wrap around something with a hard cover, a book. She takes it out and lets Luz run her hands over the front. Porcelain Dreams by Jean-Luc.
“Have you heard of this book? The author?” Voice tiptoes.
She shakes her head while opening the cover. An inscription. Simple, but flowing. Neat.
To Carmen. May the truth shimmer through the not true.
Yours. Over and over,
Jean-Luc
“It’s addressed to you.”
Carmen nods. Words stay stuck in throat. She nods again. “I don’t know who Jean-Luc is. I don’t know how this came to me. Maybe there’s another Carmen who lives close-by? I don’t know.”
Words caught in throats. Quiet. The buzzing kind. Submerged. Deep the river beneath the river. Over and over. Thoughts surfacing. Voices. Words.
“I think it’s for you.” Luz finally says. “Can I read it when you’re done?”
“Sure.” Voice tiptoes, while heart knows, It’s mine, mine, mine. The urge to kick, destroy circles back around. Why?
Both their hands trace the smooth surface of the cover. Again. Over and over. Soft black and white. Grey. Light dances, edges blur. A photograph, but of what? Shadow. Light. Soft silhouette of something or someone. Who?
“It’s pretty.” Luz says. “Just like you.” She smiles and rests her head on Carmen’s shoulder.
Carmen tries to smile back, but instead strokes Luz’s shiny black hair. Movement is easier than words. Sometimes. Over and over. Why?
Bubbles of silence. Interruptions.
“I’m going to cook something up for dinner, babe. You hungry?”
Carmen shakes her head and motions to the book. Movement easier than words.
Luz nods and pulls the blanket over Carmen’s legs before leaving the room. “I’m interested to hear how it is. To hear what it is.” She laughs, then shrugs her shoulders. Feigning disinterest. Why?
Alone with the book, Carmen lets out a deep breath. She pulls the blanket tighter around her small frame and opens to the first page. Come on mister, I’m your sister. The words circle back once more before floating away. Words on the page jump into focus. Soft black. Fragile script. Neat.
2. Jean-Luc
Words that soothe. Words that groove. Circling well-worn paths, paths made thousands of years before by someone, and that someone is you. Carmen holds the book to her chest. When was the last time she felt like someone spoke the same language? The words coming from the same deep place. The river beneath the river. Over and over. Thoughts surfacing. Voices. Words.
She hears Luz outside the room, pots banging, clanging. The rich smell of garlic and onion frying in a pan. Thoughts surfacing. Voices. Words.
Esteemed reader. I write here to be remembered. Then forgotten. Then remembered again. I regret to inform you that on the whole, I led a rather unremarkable life. When divided into parts, however, I dare say some of them were remarkable. Is that enough, dear reader? How many remarkable parts until we can call the whole exactly that — remarkable? Perhaps this book is my case for that transformation, for the permission to take away those two heavy letters. U for undulating nights and days. N for negligence of the spirit that beats inside my very chest. With honest gravity, I must confess that this spirit will not beat for much longer. This is not a threat, but a fact. Undeniable, I’m sure, and nothing to get worked up over. While I wait for my Lady of Night, the breath-taking Incubator of Life, I write to you. Esteemed reader. Coming full circle, I implore you to reach inside for that gentle patience, the generous kind, the kind that will keep you still, bearing no judgement as I commence my case of remarkable parts. If events seem unlikely, if they seem to defy the ways of Nature as you know them, I implore you to consider that while some things may not have happened exactly as I put them down, in some essential way they have. In fact, I will go even so far as to claim that in the most essential way, the events hereafter transcribed are absolutely, positively True.
Yours. Over and over,
Jean-Luc
Carmen reads on, on, on. Jean-Luc in Paris. Jean-Luc in Tangier. Jean-Luc in Madrid. All in the same day or minute or week. Seeking the pieces. Seeking the glue to put them back together. One by one by one. To make a shining golden whole. Asking hot air balloon pilots. Asking painters alongside rivers that roll. Asking small cats in alleyways, hungry for food and scraps of leftover warmth. Voices. Words. Jean-Luc in Berlin. Jean-Luc in Tuscany. Jean-Luc in Lisbon. Collecting the pieces one by one. Every remarkable bit by every remarkable bit. What does it take to put a heart back together? A soul? Outside the room, pots banging and clanging. Luz calling for dinner. Carmen closes her eyes. Jean-Luc swimming underneath. Something taking shape. Feeling. Luz calling for dinner. Again. Carmen gets up, eyes half closed. Something taking shape. Feeling.
At the dinner table, Luz talks about work and school and work and school. Carmen listens with one ear, trying to listen with both. Half of her heart. At least.
“Have you seen Otis today?” Luz asks. Shining eyes and hair. Carmen shakes her head. Voices. Words. “Well, I saw him this morning and told him to pop in for dinner if his ma was working late.”
Carmen smiles. “Knowing Otis, we’ll see him for dessert.”
Unsmiling. Shining eyes and hair. “He needs more than dessert. I know his ma is doing the best she can. But she’s never there. He’s always alone. Fucking ten years old. It’s too young.”
The slightest hint of harshness and Carmen closes up. “I know, I know. I know.” She says it quietly. Listening again with one ear. A quarter of her heart. “It’s not her fault. She can’t get a job, because, well, you know.” Carmen’s eyes involuntarily rest on Luz’s ring.
Luz puts her hand under the table. Voices. Words. “I know what it’s like to be, well, you know. To work sixty hours a week at below minimum wage and not be able to say one fucking thing about it. I know. It wasn’t that long ago for me. I’m just saying. Otis needs his ma.”
“I know, I know. I know.” Carmen says it quietly. One ear. A quarter of her heart. She finds Luz’s hand underneath the table. Feels for the ring and presses. Softly. “I know, I know. I know.” A quarter of her heart.
3. The Dance
Pots banging, clanging. “Pass me the towel?” Luz asks, uncharacteristically quiet.
Carmen passes it in silence. Movement easier than words. Luz hums while hips sway again and again. Irritation bubbles up. Silence, the need for silence. To open both ears and hear what’s swimming underneath. The urge to kick, destroy circles back around. Why? Fragile. Over and over. There’s a knock on the door and Luz raises her eyebrows, hands wet with soap.
“Otis. ¿Qué tal? How are you?” He shrugs, pulls in the small suitcase where he keeps his treasures. Action figures. Paper. Markers. Rocks and leaves. His box of music. He sits at the table and Carmen lifts his suitcase and opens it. Before he can ask, Luz is setting down hot chocolate and a small plate of cookies. Hugging Otis. Kissing. Rubbing arms and shaking hair. “And your ma? Is she working late tonight?” Otis nods. Movement easier than words. Over and over. “Did she leave you food? Some dinner?” Otis nods again, carefully biting the edges around his cookie.
Luz smiles at Carmen and Carmen smiles back. Half of her heart. “I’ll sit at the table with Otis and do some work.”
Carmen nods. “I’ll just be in the other room reading. If you need anything,” she adds. A quarter of her heart.
She opens the book to music, so much music. Music coming out of roots of trees, twisting up the thick middle, floating up, up, up to tips of branches and beyond. And dancing, so much dancing. Leaves swirling up and down and up and down again. Slowly, slowly, then fast, fast, fast. Guided here and there by Lady Wind as she dances, too. Invisible made visible as she curls around Jean-Luc, rustles hair, brushes against face, eyebrows, bridge of nose, tip of ear. Lips. His feet glide over soft moss, reaching out for leaves, taking them by the hand and spinning them until no one knows which way is here or there or anywhere. The lightness of being a dancing person in this world, a remarkable dancing person. Join me. Jean- Luc whispers through the page and Carmen asks how. With closed eyes, dance. Carmen closes her eyes and glides her feet through dead leaves. They burned so bright before they fell. Their last dance burned so bright. Before they fell. Carmen looks to the source of the voice and offers a small smile, feeling something wet on her face. What’s there to cry about, child? Carmen shrugs. Everything. And nothing. The source of the voice. Indeed. Both a beginning and an end. Jean-Luc offers his hand and Carmen takes it. Half of her heart. Movement fills. Movement thrills. To be alive again. The words come from nowhere and stick. To be alive. Again. Feet gliding. Spinning leaves. Lady Wind and her gentle touch. Three-fourths of her heart.
Then laughter shakes the trees away. “Carmen!” Luz calls. Short of breath. Carmen closes her eyes and everything is different. Jean-Luc, gone. Wind, still. The trees have shaken off the rest of their leaves. They burned so bright before they fell. Before they fell. “Carmen!” Luz calls again. The music is back and Carmen’s feet glide to where Luz and Otis are dancing. Spinning each other round, round, round until no one knows which way is here or there or anywhere. The lightness of being a dancing person in this world, a remarkable dancing person.
Otis runs up to Carmen and pulls her in. Into the dancing, into the movement that makes the heart lighter and spirit full. “This is my favorite song,” he says. “Do you want me to sing it to you?”
Yes, she nods her head. Three-fourths of her heart. He clears his throat and something like magic comes out. Voice full and sweet. Coming from someplace deep.
“Paloma. Did you know that’s my mom’s name? This is her song.” Otis keeps singing while feet glide around the perimeter of the room. In motion, stays in motion. Movement fills. Movement thrills. Over and over. Luz’s eyes are shining. Bottomless, emotional wells. Carmen’s heart feels tender, her indifference and irritation melting away. Why? Three-fourths of her heart. Why?
When Luz comes and whispers in her ear, “Dance with me,” she takes her hand and lets herself be led here and there and everywhere. Three stars burning bright as endless twinkling night. So beautiful before they fell. Before they fell.
Luz pulls the blanket over Otis on the couch. “He’s tired himself out. I left a message with Paloma. She’ll probably just come get him in the morning before school.”
Carmen yawns. “I’ll be up. I work early tomorrow.”
Luz’s fingers reach for hers in the dark. “Sleep with me tonight?” Eyes shining. Burning bright. The urge to kick, destroy circles back around. Why? Fragile. Over and over. Carmen shakes her head. Movement easier than words. Again. Eyes down, watching falling leaves. Both a beginning and an end.
“I..” she starts, stumbling to the truth.
“It’s okay. Not tonight.”
Carmen nods and returns the kiss placed hastily on her cheek. A quarter of her heart.
Curled up in her own bed, Carmen can feel Luz’s heart beating in the next room. The rhythm of the awake, the shades of silence that ache. Carmen closes her hands around the book and listens. What’s there to cry about, child? She’s back in the forest, her back against a tree, shoulder to shoulder. They burned so bright. Jean-Luc reaches for her hand and holds it with gentle firmness. A confirmation. How nice not to have to speak. Eyes turn heavy. Lady Wind dances them to sleep, to sleep. To sleep.
4. The Stream
Otis waves goodbye, hand in hand with Paloma. Two stars burning bright. Residue of dance dust glowing at the edges of hair, shirt. Hands. What a little man. Human. What a big heart. Human. What a deep, deep ocean. Human. Carmen feels the inky darkness creeping in, creeping up, starting as a hollow ache in the stomach. Shakes it away. What’s there to cry about, child? She makes coffee in the blue darkness of morning, careful not to make too much noise. Luz sleeping. Silence, sweet silence. Jean-Luc sitting across the table, hands with long fingers around a warm cup. Carmen blinks. Gone. Blinks. There again. She smiles at his game. Come with me, she thinks. Where? Carmen pours coffee into a thermos, grabs her hat and gloves. Ties up her boots. I’ll show you.
They drive and drive through rising darkness. Headlights cutting through crackling cold. Buildings disappearing behind them, in front of them opens up. Flat fields, reaching to the very horizon and back. Waiting for the sun. There’s a spot close to here. I’ll show you. They take a left and the road narrows as Carmen slows to a stop. Trees and more trees. Taking a hundred years for a single breath. Important, measured. True. Another hundred to form a single word. Important, measured. True. They step out to cold and hear something like water. Carmen leads them on to cold flowing, to a black rushing stream. A rock invites them to sit and they do, curled up to keep warm. Warmth is a rather remarkable feeling. Jean-Luc’s voice sweeps underneath the cold. The radiating warmth felt when the heart swells to three times its ordinary size. When it swells so much the chest feels tight and the only solution is release. Release through mechanism of laughter. Release through mechanism of tears. If fortune smiles on us, both. I remember Laughter. Oh, how we used to dance. How she spun me around and turned me upside down. Holding the small of my back. Fragile in her elusiveness, dancing her way out, always leaving me with a sense of uncertainty about what had transpired. The leftover fragments of a tortured lover’s dream. I’ve also shared a sizable portion of these moments with Tears. Oh, how we used to dive. How she pulled me underwater and kept me there until my lungs burned and my head burst. Pulling me through the stream that rushes and flushes the living past to other lands. To places where someone else might recognize their song, utilize them and string them along, guiding them to further incarnations. The last time I was at the stream, I stayed underwater too long. I almost didn’t come back up. I had an imperfect love. I had the most perfectly imperfect love. He told me don’t go, and so I stayed. And stayed. And stayed. If you suspect I’m speaking of a lover, you wouldn’t be wrong. But you wouldn’t be right. It was more than that. It was less. It was exactly what it was. The first time he kissed me I said, so this is what lips feel like. I had kissed lips before. Women and men and those beautiful souls who glide through all spheres, who render them meaningless. But I had never felt lips until my perfectly imperfect love. They were soft, but firm. And red, bursting color even in the dead of night. One night those lips kissed my heart and ever since it’s been bursting color. I still have that, even after our story ended, as all stories eventually do. I still have my heart bursting in red. I still know what lips feel like. I know the fragile magic of the perfectly imperfect. I know more. Feel more. We burned so bright before we fell. Before we fell. We burned the brightest red and danced our way right to the very end. But the heart spurs on, bursting in shades it can’t forget. Colors living on in further incarnations.
Carmen takes a deep breath into the silence that follows. She wants to cry. She wants to kiss lips that feel like lips. She wants to feel all the shades of red. Did you feel red by a stream? By a stream like this one? This is all she can think to ask, though it’s not what she really means to say. Not exactly. She feels the shape but can’t find the words. Movement easier. Always. I felt red by a stream like this. Just like this in the cold, dark morning. We talked about the beginning of the end. We offered our tears to the stream and prayed for it to get us through to our next incarnation. In one piece. I made it through, but not whole. I came up with my pieces scattered throughout time and lands I would have to traverse to put myself back together. But at least I made it through. With a heart still bursting in red. At least I made it through. You were the only one who made it? After the stream, I never saw him again. He didn’t make it through, but he left me all his shades of red. Both a beginning and an end. All his shades of red.
There’s so much to cry about. This is all she can think to say, though there’s so much more. Everything and nothing. Both a beginning and an end. She wants to kiss lips that feel like lips. She wants to feel all the shades of red. But the warmth is gone, and she’s sitting on the rock alone now. The stream goes on. Taking the tears that fall, and those that never do. The ones always bubbling up on the inside. Over and over.
5. Sparrow
Tired from work. Inside and out. Luz and Otis are sitting at the table. Luz typing away. Otis drawing. Markers laid out. Colors living on in further incarnations. All his shades of red.
“There’s dinner on the stove, babe.”
“Thank you.” Luz kisses her cheek. A quarter of her heart.
“Do you want to see my sparrow?” Otis pushes his drawing towards Carmen. “I learned about them at school today. Did you know they take dust baths? That’s what my teacher said. I raised my hand and asked what are dust baths, because you can kind of guess, but I wanted to be really, really sure. They make a hole in the dirt with their feet, did you know that? And then they lie in it, like on a couch kind of, and they fling up dirt and dust with their wings and it goes all over their whole bodies. Isn’t that kind of cool? Maybe that’s why they’re brown. Or how it started. Maybe they used to be a different color, like white. Do you think so? Maybe I should ask my teacher tomorrow.” Otis takes his drawing back, shading with the most beautiful, rooted brown. Frantic strokes. Over and over. Carmen places a hand on his head, shakes his hair. Frantic strokes. Over and over.
Luz raises concerned eyebrows and Carmen raises them back. Otis never talks this much. They let him keep talking and drawing. Talking and drawing. Frantic strokes. Over and over. Something is in the boy that needs to get out. Talking and drawing. Frantic. Over and over.
Luz mouths across the table. “How are you?”
Carmen notices how full and red her lips are. She wants to kiss lips that feel like lips. Bursting color. “Okay,” she mouths back. Wondering what her own lips look like, feel like. Bursting in what shade?
Otis keeps talking and drawing, talking and drawing until his eyes start to open and close and close. “Otis, let’s get you to bed.” Luz picks him up and carries him to the couch. His head sinks into her chest, arms curl tight around her neck. Three-fourths of her heart.
“Paloma will know he’s here, right? She must be working late again.”
Carmen nods. They lean against the doorway, whispering. The dark blurs the edges of things, but Luz’s lips are still bursting color. Even in the dead of night. Carmen’s heart is jumping up and down. Frantic strokes. Over and over. Luz gently puts her hand over its fluttering. “Your heart is racing, babe.” The urge to kick, destroy circles back around. Why? Fragile. Over and over.
Carmen nods. Movement easier than words. It feels like something is coming. She thinks but doesn’t say. A shape. A dark something. Coming. Climbing up, up, up to reach them. Who? Where? She doesn’t know. She thinks but doesn’t say. Something. Coming.
“Carmen,” Luz whispers. Lips that look like lips. “Do you feel that?” Carmen nods but doesn’t know if she’s talking about the dark something coming, climbing up to reach them, or her sudden desire to feel what lips feel like, bursting color. Even in the dead of night. “Do you feel that?” Luz whispers again.
“The dark or the red?” Carmen asks, the only way she knows how.
“I feel the dark, but I’m asking about the red.”
Carmen nods. Movement easier than words. She sighs as Luz draws a line down her neck with color. Frantic strokes. Over and over. Her heart slows, but there is movement everywhere else. Frantic strokes. Over and over. The urge to kick, destroy settles down, down, down. Movement easier than words. Always. Over and over.
6. Vienna
Carmen is back in her own bed, feeling the gentle breath of Luz in the next room. Sweet release. The red overpowered the dark something coming for her. For her. Why not for me? For me? Lips bursting color even in the dead of night. But her heart slowed, even with movement everywhere else. Release, everywhere else. The urge to kick, destroy. Again. Why? She wants to cry. She wants to kiss lips that feel like lips. She wants her heart to grow big, big, big. She wants the dark something to come already and show its shape. The gentle breath of Luz in the next room. Sweet release. Worn out from frantic strokes. The quiet tossing of Otis in the next room. Sweet release. Worn out from frantic strokes. The quiet hum of Jean-Luc, the only other soul awake. Over and over. She blinks, he’s there. Blinks again, gone. Book open, she calls.
Esteemed reader. I wish to account for what happened after the stream. After we talked about the beginning of the end on a cold dark morning. After we offered our tears and prayed for it to get us through to our next incarnation. After I made it through, but my perfectly imperfect love did not. After I set to travel the world with my heart bursting in red, in search of the pieces to put myself back together. Disoriented as thunder that cracks the sky wide open. I was lucky enough to find one of my pieces, all because of Vienna. Not the place, but the person. A person. Forgive me as I inch my way to the heart of this small story, as it seems to be coming out in jumbled bits. This is the first time I’ve attempted to pull this story out from under the deep waters and rocks where it’s been abandoned, tangled but whole. I walked circles around my city one afternoon, an afternoon the sun neglected to show her face. I was feeling utterly neglected by life itself. By the shimmering thread that seemed to weave through everyone else, linking the moments of their days together. Their thoughts, actions, words, all bound together by the same shimmering thread, keeping them moving, keeping them whole. I wondered where my own thread was, where my own shimmering had quietly escaped to. These were some of the questions Vienna asked me when I hired her to find it. A private investigator, if you will, specializing in tracking down lost threads. I had but pennies to my name, and though I told her so in all honesty, she assured me that payment would come, though in what fashion she did not say. The important thing, the essential thing, was finding the link to render my days coherent and whole. Purposeful. I wasn’t rich in options at this point, so I agreed with a reckless kind of hope that sometimes felt like the opposite of hope, the lack of it, a perfectly sized hole of it. Vienna walked circles around my city, around and around she went as the sun rose and set and rose again. Seven days she walked and walked, listening, searching under every stone, inside and out of every tree, talking to every bird, every human, everything with hearts to see and presence to listen. She talked and asked and walked and walked. On the seventh day, as she described, a talkative sparrow told her he saw a shimmering thing moving through the tall grass of a meadow not far from the city. The sparrow agreed to take her there, two birds flying through a cloudless sky until underneath all was green and yellow and brown. Later, when I asked Vienna about flight, she told me it felt like hope, not the reckless kind, but the kind that holds all sorrow and keeps it safe and warm. I imagine you’ve already surmised that the two flying birds found the shimmering thread weaving through the tall grass like a snake. They gathered it in their beaks and flew it back to me, over green and yellow and brown, until pavement was all that was underneath. I heard a soft knock, two times, but when I opened my door Vienna was gone. A small box rested on my stoop, the word “fragile” written across in shaky script. Upon carefully opening the box, my eyes caught the flicker of a shimmering thread reflecting light where there was none. Esteemed reader, would you believe me if I said that I felt something inside me stir? Would you believe me if I told you that the perfectly sized hole where hope should be closed up with a gentle weaving, and I felt something else take its place? Something shimmering, something that reflected light even where there was none, as so often occurs in this gray city of mine. I felt that I could hold all the world’s sorrow with care, keeping it safe and warm.
I regret to inform you, esteemed reader, that I never laid eyes on Vienna after that seventh day. Her service regrettably remains unpaid, a debt that still, these many lifetimes later, occasionally keeps me up at late hours of the night. As I earlier confessed, this spirit will not beat for much longer. This is not a threat, but a fact. Undeniable, I’m sure, and nothing to get worked up over. I can only trust that one day Vienna will learn of my immeasurable gratitude. Without the shimmering thread, I don’t know where or who I’d be. It’s possible, esteemed reader, that our threads have intertwined for these small moments in time, and I hope that you can feel the shimmering thing inside you, weaving moments together purposefully, keeping sorrow safe and warm. A life not happy, for what is happiness and what does it have to do with you or me? Our aim is a life that’s true. Close your eyes and I know you will feel the shape of this word, its taste. True. This is what the shimmering thread weaves together for us. This is what the slithering, shimmering thing is weaving together for us right here. Right now.
For you, for you. For you,
Jean-Luc
Carmen closes her eyes, feels the hope-sized hole closing up. The gentle weaving of shimmering thread. Both a beginning and an end. The inky sadness stays, and she wraps her arms around it, keeping it safe and warm. Not happy, but true. But true.
7. Awake
The drifting smell of coffee and cinnamon. Carmen wraps herself in blankets and keeps them hanging over her shoulders as she gets out of bed, bracing her feet for the cold floor. Open door. Quiet voices. Red eyes. Why?
“Luz.” Carmen touches her arm, stopping her frantic fussing over Otis. “It’s a little late, isn’t it? Where’s Paloma?”
Luz shakes her head. Over and over. Movement easier than words. “I, I, can’t. Just look at the news. I have to take Otis to school and talk to someone there. Remember Tara, our lawyer? The one who helped us with me, with us, with this. I can call her. I have to take Otis to school. I have to take him. I have to.”
“Luz.” Carmen interrupts. Says her name softly. Again. Gentle touch, but Luz shakes her off.
“Look at the news. I’ll call you when I can. I have to take him.” Otis quiet, quiet, quiet. Nibbling the edges of a cookie as he walks out the door. Luz. Red eyes. Frantic. Why?
Carmen walks around to the open computer screen, chest tightening. Jean-Luc is beside her, telling her to be brave. Where is the thread, and what good will the gentle weaving be now? She wants to cry, but her mouth feels dry. Her heart. All the dust where tears should be. She reads.
ICE Arrests Hundreds in Raids Targeting Immigrant Workers
Her head spins, making sense of the swimming words. Poultry factory. She knows Paloma worked at one. Paloma, Paloma. Where? Her head spins. She reads. 700 workers arrested across seven chicken plants in two counties. The biggest raid in a decade. Her head spins, making sense of the swimming words. Paloma, Paloma. Where?
She calls Luz and it rings and rings. She calls Tara, the lawyer, and it rings and rings. The smell of coffee and cinnamon. She doesn’t know what to do. Paloma, Paloma. Where?
She sits at the table and rests her head on Jean-Luc. She wants to cry, but nothing comes out. Tears turned to dust. Her heart, her heart. Where? Say something, she thinks. There’s nothing to say, he answers. She throws the book across the room. The tears they come, and she wishes they would turn back to dust. Her heart, her heart.
Luz calls, finally. “I talked to Tara. She’s calling around, but she thinks they were all taken to a detention center in the next state over. Another fucking state.” Her voice cracks into pieces with every word. “Tara might be able to get Paloma out on bond to wait for her court date. She’s been using a fake social for work, so Tara’s worried they might press criminal charges for that. There’s been a precedent of not doing that, but things are changing. With a criminal background, it’s going to be damn near impossible for Paloma to get any sort of legal permission to stay here. Even with a kid. It’s so fucked up. There’s never been any legal option for her. She has no family here. Tara doesn’t know how much she can do even though Paloma’s been here for over a decade and Otis is a U.S. citizen. It’s so fucked up. If you hadn’t married me, that could be me right now, carted to a detention center three hours away, waiting to be fucking deported. What the fuck do we do? What the fuck.”
The tears they come again, and she wishes they would turn back to dust. Again. Her heart, her heart. “And Otis? Luz, does he know?”
“He knows. His school counselor and I talked to him this morning. We told him and he said nothing, not a fucking thing. He looked at us like he didn’t understand. And then I touched his arm and he melted. Tears came out, silent and steady and endless. He’ll stay here, of course. Until all this gets figured out.”
Carmen feels her heart shrinking again, protecting itself against everything coming up. “Of course. He’ll stay here. Of course.” The line goes silent as they both search for the words that will make everything okay. But there’s nothing to say. Carmen looks at the book, its scattered pages across the room. “I’m sorry,” she says. To Luz. To Jean-Luc. To everything and everyone she can’t possibly fit into her gradually shrinking heart. Carmen hangs up the phone and instead of getting ready for work, she takes the book to her room and closes the door. “I’m sorry,” she says. Again. Over and over. Jean-Luc holds her with strong arms. Steady. There’s nothing to say. There’s everything to say, she thinks. That, too. Both a beginning and an end. His lips that feel like lips kiss the back of her neck as she falls into a fitful sleep. Over and over. Again and again.
8. Wedding
Carmen stumbles in and out of sleep. Dreaming. There was a wedding once, if you can call it that. Courthouse married, Luz in red. Carmen in black. Afterwards they went to dinner with a few of their friends. Friends who knew their situation. A celebration about green card status and a path to citizenship more than anything else. But it was undeniable that love might be there, between the two of them, so everyone celebrated the potential of that, too. Love hanging in the air, a delicate balance that no one wanted to curse by speaking on it. So they spoke around it, between it, under it.
After they got home, buzzed on laughter and tequila, Luz and Carmen danced and danced, and Luz talked and talked about the future. Carmen let herself be pulled in by Luz’s sweet words, by the way she gently stroked her hair, and that night they melted into each other’s sighs and skin. Luz in red. Carmen in black. Otis in white. Jean-Luc in masquerade. A venetian bull, red and black. Dark eyes shining through the mask. There is cake and lights and music. Otis is laughing and Carmen’s heart expands and bursts with sound. Luz’s, too. She’s laughing and taking Otis to the dance floor. Isn’t laughter just like music? Light as tips of branches flowing in the breeze. Heavy as grounded mess of emotion sinking deep down to the roots. It’s such a complicated, breathing thing, laughter. Part of an organic tangle, a dense mass that we only ever see the very tip of. Carmen nods as Jean-Luc takes her hand. Her head feels fuzzy, but the touch brings her back to her body. She touches his mask, runs her fingers up and down the embroidered red on black. Her heart bursts as she pulls Jean-Luc closer. Lips that feel like lips. She looks around at Luz. Is this okay, she wonders, but Luz is laughing, twirling Otis round and round. Paloma, Paloma, where? Her head feels fuzzy again and Jean-Luc brings her back. Over and over. Red and black circling round, round, round.
She wakes to Luz’s body pressing against hers. “You awake?”
“Mmhmm,” Carmen murmurs. Pulling Luz’s arms tightly around her. Red and black circling round, round, round.
“Otis is asleep in my bed. Can I just stay here for a little while? It’s been a fucking day.” She sighs and pushes her weight into Carmen’s back, relaxes into it.
“Do you want to switch? I can hold you.” Carmen whispers. Eyes half closed. Half of her heart. Red and black circling round, round, round.
“No, don’t move. This is helping.” Luz, normally unable to sit with silence lets herself be consumed by it. Even her breath is soft and quiet. But Carmen feels the tiny tremors in Luz’s chest against her back. The soft push and pull, the sudden heaves, and she wonders if Luz is crying silently, slow inverted tears that sink to the bottom, down to that tangled, dense mass that we only ever see the very tip of. She squeezes Luz’s arm, her hand, pushes the weight of her body back to let Luz know she’s there. Three-fourths of her heart. Fragile. Over and over. She’s there.
9. Tram
They take the three-hour train ride, right up to the very road where the detention center stands, looming. After their visit, Otis is full of questions.
“Why is ma in prison?”
Deep sigh. “It’s not prison, Otis.”
“Well, why is she wearing prison clothes? Why can’t she leave? If it’s not prison, then why are there police guards? Why did I have to walk through those metal things?”
Another deep sigh. “It’s an immigration detention center. It’s where people who need time to figure out their immigration cases have to stay.”
Otis shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”
Frustration. “I don’t either.” Then, “I’m sorry, Otis. It’s just that it’s hard for me to explain. It’s all very confusing. Even for adults.”
“But my ma’s not bad, is she?”
Carmen blinks hard while Luz’s eyes fill with tears. “No, Otis. Your ma isn’t bad. She’s the opposite of bad. She’s very good and she loves you so much. She loves you so so much.”
Otis nods and looks away. Luz wipes away her tears and Carmen blinks harder. Over and over. “And I’m not bad?” Otis looks down as he asks this, eyes glued to his swinging feet.
“No, amor.” Luz’s voice cracks, so she tries again. Definitive. “No. You’re not bad. The people who took your mom from work and are making her stay here are bad.”
Otis shakes his head. “But who’s making her stay here? Can I talk to them and tell them I need my mom to come home? That I’ll promise to take care of us. I can show them my report card. I got all As and maybe only one B. Should I bring it next time? I can show them that we’re not bad. I can tell them that.”
Luz stands up and Carmen knows that they need to be doing something, anything except for sitting on a damn bench in the cold outside the detention center. “Otis, we can talk to the lawyer together. We can ask her all our questions about what will help get your mom home. I don’t have all those answers for you right now. I wish I did. I’m so sorry. I don’t.”
Otis nods and shrugs his shoulders. Feigning disinterest. Why? Fragile. Over and over. Why? The urge to kick, destroy circles back around. And back around. And back around. Again.
10. Otis
Luz hands Otis a brand-new pack of watercolor pencils. Otis doesn’t smile but puts them next to his suitcase on the table. They went to the art store after visiting Paloma, a silly attempt to cheer Otis up, like that was possible. A small exercise in taking back control. Carmen sits with Otis, two silent trees, words forming deep, deep down. Underneath.
Taking a measured breath, Luz comes up behind Carmen and rubs her shoulders. Her neck. Releasing pressure. Skin buzzing and melting into warmth. Half of her heart. A paloma takes shape on paper, wings tucked in, neck stretched out. Graceful.
“It’s beautiful, Otis.” Luz whispers.
Carmen purrs. “Don’t stop. Please.”
A small plate of uneaten cookies on the table. Otis is coloring the bird in with his new pencils. Shimmering turquoise and purple. Inky black and subtle gray.
“It’s beautiful, Otis.” Luz whispers. Again. Eyes glazed. Hands finding knots and pressuring them away.
Otis mumbles words that don’t quite form.
“What was that, amor?”
“It’s not for you.” The words find their jagged shape. Louder. “It’s not for you.” The urge to kick, destroy circles back around. “It’s not for you.” Silent tears are falling onto the page and the watercolor pencils come to life, their colors swirling, swimming into each other with trickling movement. The neck stretches out. The bird flutters its wings. The shimmering turquoise and purple become something else. The inky black and gray. Colors transform into the most beautiful, rooted brown. Soft and earthy as the tiny coo that comes and comes and doesn’t stop. “She’s calling me. She needs me. And I’m not there.” Tears that come and come and don’t stop. Louder. “She needs me. And I’m not there.” The jagged shape of his words, they soften before becoming jagged again. Over and over. The urge to kick, destroy circles back around. Fragile. Over and over.
“Otis.” Luz’s voice reaches out but stops halfway. Something in the way he’s holding his shoulders. Something in the way his tears are falling and making the bird coo and coo and coo, changing from one color to the next to the next. Something in the way that everything is falling apart, yet somehow still standing. Impossibly, still standing. The pieces all shaken up. “Otis.” Luz tries again, stopping halfway. Again. The rubbing stops and Carmen doesn’t purr. The whole room is waiting for something.
Otis lifts his head, hands curled into tiny fists. His lungs gathering all the air he possibly can in order to push the words out. “I said, IT’S NOT FOR YOU.” The jagged words bounce off the walls and into their hearts. Bursting open. Why? “IT’S. NOT. FOR. YOU.” The words echo as Otis picks up his paper and tears it, the bird fluttering and cooing, its colors spilling out in puddles across the floor.
Carmen calmly gets up to pick something heavy and dripping from the water. Shakes off the wetness, looks curiously at the damaged pages and cover. Porcelain Dreams by Jean-Luc. The title shimmers in and out of focus before swimming away. A gentle cooing. From where? Paloma, Paloma. Where? Otis looks up and his little body shakes. Everything falling apart, yet somehow still standing. Impossibly, still standing. The pieces all shaken up. His little body shakes. All of her heart. His little body shakes. All of her heart.
11. Nostalgia
Days and nights pass without anyone noticing. With both beds occupied, Carmen takes a blanket with her into the dark, knowing that sleep isn’t going to come. Not tonight. She picks up the water-damaged book and stretches out on the couch, flipping through the now empty pages. Closes her eyes and calls. At first, nothing. Silence beneath the silence. Then something stirs underneath. Where? She flips through the empty book again, tears forming and stinging her eyes. Where? The question sits stuck in her throat. Cracked. Longing. Please.
She turns to the last page. Tears drop. Words form. Please.
Esteemed reader. I regret to inform you that this is my last letter to you, and that I am writing with some degree of haste. With honest gravity, I must confess that this spirit will not beat for much longer. This is not a threat, but a fact. Undeniable, I’m sure, and nothing to get worked up over. I thought we might have the pleasure of sharing more moments together, but I am nearing the end of this road earlier than expected. Perhaps it’s wise to not ever expect or hope for too much road ahead, especially alongside another soul. Perhaps it’s wise, so forgive me when I say, in a rather insolent and unbecoming manner, to damn that rotted wisdom to hell. Here I shall humbly propose an imprudent alternative. The way to gather all those remarkable parts is to wish and expect the hell out of life, to expect the hell out of moments. Wish to the moon and beyond, even when life should turn your golden wishes to dust. Keep expecting the remarkable. Hoping for it. Seeing it behind every door and through every window. In every creature you see. This is what I’ve tried to do, and while I haven’t quite completed my case of remarkable parts, I hope that you have seen enough, experienced enough, to know what I am truly made of. The shimmering thread goes on, Carmen, though we might wish it to stay a little longer in one place. Even still, I am with you, wiping those tears, everything and nothing all at once. Heavy clouds may surround you, and it might not make sense how everything is falling apart yet somehow still standing. I remind you only, if nothing else, to remain open. The heart can take a great deal more than we ever realize it can. Ours, and everyone’s around us. Through all measures and configurations of pain. Remain open. And if you should ever doubt our dance, remember that golden thread, slinking through every moment, linking the past, present, future all together, rendering time meaningless as everything connects in its own way, on its own terms. Transcending worn-out shapes and forms of being. Remember my lips that feel like lips. Look for the remarkable in everyone and everything. Hope, even when it seems like the world is telling you, indeed shouting at you, to stop hoping. These thundering voices are real, but they’re not true. Seek out the true. Rest assured that even as the ink swims away, our dance, that beautiful, brief dance, is in the most essential way, absolutely and positively True. Impressions made, the remarkable stays, hearts burst in color from other days. Be brave. While Lady of Night takes me away. Be brave.
Yours. Over and over.
Jean-Luc
Carmen closes her eyes, feeling the book’s hard cover, grounding herself with the weight. They burned so bright before they fell. Their last dance burned so bright. Before they fell. Carmen looks to the source of the familiar, fading voice and offers a small smile, feeling something wet on her face. What’s there to cry about, child? Carmen shrugs. Everything. And nothing. The source of the voice. Indeed. Both a beginning and an end. Jean-Luc offers his hand and Carmen takes it. With lips that feel like lips before fading away. All of her heart. Little body shaking. All of her heart.
12. November
62 days and Paloma is back. For now. Otis walks up but doesn’t hug her. Fragile. Over and over. Why? Carmen can’t remember the last time she saw him smile. She can’t remember what his laugh sounds like. The rhythm his feet make when he dances. Luz and Paloma are talking in Spanish together. Quiet voices. Words.
Otis walks over and sits on her lap. “What does it mean my ma has a court date next November? Will she have to go away again when that happens? Back to jail? She told me she can’t work anymore. That she has to wait for a year to find out what happens. I heard her crying to the lawyer lady. The lady said the system is backed up, but this buys us more time. What does that mean? How can you buy time? And how much can we buy? Is it expensive? Can we buy more and more and more? So she’ll never have to go away again? I can start working to buy more time. Do you think that’s a good idea? My ma’s worried. I heard her ask the lady how she was going to pay for our apartment and food and other stuff. Are we going to run out of food? Will she have to go away? Back to jail? Again?” Carmen lets Otis talk, rubbing his back, not knowing the answers to any of his questions. The determined way he asks them, like if he asks just the right one, in just the right way, then everything will make sense. It won’t, Carmen thinks sadly. There’s no magic question that will help everything make sense, and this tugs at her heart, threatens to close it all up. She lets tears form, keeping her soft.
“I don’t know, Otis. I don’t know. But I do know that we all have to sit in this unknowingness together. It’s the only way.”
Carmen and Luz hug and kiss Otis as he leaves, tears involuntarily falling.
“Can I still sleep here sometimes?” Luz looks up at Paloma apologetically, and both of them touch Otis’s shoulder.
“Vamos hijo,” she says. Quietly.
Luz blows a silent kiss to Otis’s back and as soon as the door closes, she lets out a sigh that quickly turns into sobbing. “Come,” Carmen whispers. Pulling her gently towards her room, to a bed that’s not quite big enough to hold their mutual grief.
“I’ll miss having him here, of course, but my heart hurts for what’s going to happen. Carmen, what’s going to happen? Tara said the best she can do is to keep buying more time. Maybe the enforcement priorities will change. Just keep buying more time. How is Paloma supposed to live with all of this looming over her head? She can’t go find work. Not after those raids. Every employer is on high alert.” Carmen lets her talk, rubbing her back, not knowing the answers to any of her questions. “And Otis. He’s changed so fucking much. He’s always been quiet. But it’s a different type of quiet now. He’s desperate for someone to show him that everything is going to be okay, and no one can show him that. But he’s still looking, he’s counting on us, and we keep letting him down.”
“I know, I know, I know.” Carmen repeats this, burying her face into Luz’s neck. “I know, I know, I know.” All of her heart. She reaches for Luz’s hand and squeezes it as hard as she can. All of her heart. “We have to stay open. For Otis. For Paloma. For us. We have to sit in this unknowingness together.” She squeezes again. “It’s the only way.”
Luz squeezes back. “It hurts so damn much to see Otis like that.”
Carmen sighs, letting her tears fall into Luz’s neck, into her shiny black hair. “It hurts too much. But we can’t look away. Someone reminded me recently that the heart can take a great deal more than we ever realize it can. We can’t look away.”
Moments pass, the golden thread weaves around their bodies, two hearts growing in their sadness. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” The question hangs and Carmen knows there’s only one possibility.
“Of course.” She says it softly. Decisively. “Of course.”
A life not happy, for what is happiness and what does it have to do with you or me? Our aim is a life that’s true. Close your eyes and I know you will feel the shape of this word, its taste. True. This is what the shimmering thread weaves together for us. This is what the slithering, shimmering thing is weaving together for us right here. Right now.
Carmen remembers, lets her heart burst in color, even in the dead of night. The absence of Otis. The absence of lips that feel like lips. The absence of justice in a world where systems eat people alive. People of the most beautiful, rooted brown. Alive. She feels the shape of her sorrow, the kind that holds everything, keeps it safe and warm.
