Open Water by Caleb Nelson (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

gestation. Now her body is falling apart, or rather, has already fallen. Her spirit is everywhere. You don’t know if you’ll ever return and see where she has been laid to rest, but on this occasion, you do not have the strength. You’re not religious but you’re praying for your own mother and father as they make the journey back to Ghana, back home. Your knees are on hard wooden floor, prostrating at the foot of your own desires, when the dog nudges you in the back. The dog has never seen snow before. The sheet above is cloudless, lacking in form and detail. Have you ever looked at the sky at night after it has snowed? Orange glow, light caught between somewhere. Makes you want to reach up and touch, so sometimes, you pray. If prayer is mostly desire from the inner self, then you’re praying for a safe trip for her.

She says:

There’s nobody here to hear the soft pad of her feet across gold dust. Warm rush of the ocean. Just needed to get away. Just needed some peace of mind. Just needed to breathe. Sky here is cloudless too. The blue of a heatwave. Summer in January. Funny how time works.

Pulled herself over all sorts of lines to get here. Drew this line from herself to him, her father, all by herself, just to be close. No, the line was there, is always there, will always be there, but she’s trying to reinforce, to strengthen. Blood and bone across the water, across continents and borders. What is a joint? What is a fracture? What is a break? It’s all very difficult. Language fails us, especially when he doesn’t open his mouth. It’s all just, a lot. So she’s reaching into a pocket of time, where there’s nothing but heatwave blue, a summer in January, golden dust stuck between toes, the roar of a quiet body of water.

Also, a thank you. She’s grateful.

You say:

There’s a piece of art which comes to mind by Donald Rodney, titled In the House of My Father. A photo: a dark hand, palm turned upwards, lifelines ­criss-­crossing skin; in the centre of the palm, a tiny house, loosely constructed, held together with several pins. You’ve often had such an image, or something similar, where you are made aware that you carry the house of your father, which means you also carry a part of the house he carried, your father’s father’s, and that this man would’ve done the same. Your first instinct is to ball your hand into a fist, crushing the thing, letting the weight drift to the ground; but perhaps it would be necessary to prise open its doors, to search the rooms which are lit, glance into those which are not, to see what, as of yet, remains unseen. Then leave this place, in peace, with peace, both his and yours, intact.

You know what it means to have to draw the line yourself. You know what it means to have rugged anger melt, when your father laughs so hard at his own joke that tears stream down, down, down. You know what it means to find tears streaming down, down, down. Caught you unawares. A few years ago, and you had to turn off into an alley in the darkness and cry. The rush of memories like the tow of the ocean, the recollection of a man for whom love was not always synonymous with care. You cried like the time he left you in the shop and did not return. You cried yourself hoarse and soft. You cried like an infant does for their father. How ironic. Indeed, what is a joint? What is a fracture? What is a break? Under what conditions does unconditional love become no more? The answer is you will never not cry for your father.

You don’t always like those you love unconditionally. Language fails us, always. Flimsy things, these words. And every­­thing flounders in the face of real gratitude, which even a thank you cannot surmise, but a thank you to her also.

She says:

Language fails us, and sometimes our parents do too. We all fail each other, sometimes small, sometimes big, but look, when we love we trust, and when we fail, we fracture that joint. She doesn’t want it to break and maybe that’s not possible, but she doesn’t want to find out. She’s not religious either, but she knows what she desires.

She’s looking forward to returning home, to a place familiar, where coherence and clarity might make an appearance.

6

‘Have you eaten?’

‘Nah, man.’

‘I’ll order. Chinese, Indian, Thai, Caribbean?’ you ask.

‘It’ll never arrive if you order Caribbean. Chinese?’

‘Chinese is always a safe bet,’ you say.

You have the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, supermarket shopping basket swinging from the other arm.

‘What do you want? From the takeaway,’ you add.

‘Send me the menu. Actually, just something with chicken in it. Or no, ribs. Get me ribs, please.’

‘Done deal. I’ll see you soon.’

Back home, in your kitchen, you unpack the bag of things you know she likes but don’t normally have stocked: those sweet chilli crisps, soy milk, Earl Grey teabags. You’re only going to look over the sample images you took the week before, for the photography project you’re working on together, but you would like her to feel comfortable, like her to feel at home.

Your house is too quiet, or rather it is loud in the absence of others. Your parents are still in Ghana, celebrating your grandma’s life. Your little brother has returned to university. You’re home alone. The silence is something you normally crave in such a full household, but something is missing. Every time you’re at hers, you can guarantee the portable speaker is sending sound through the room. What to play? What says you’re not overthinking this? Probably not having that thought, but it is too late now.

When the knock comes, it is a stout, smiling man, holding a brown paper bag soiled by oil. She rounds the corner your house sits