Poetry, Prose, & Peonies

I glance at the clock on the dashboard of Mom’s Ford Fusion. 4pm, Saturday November 23, 2013. The Canadian left-hand drive trails down the road following two small right-hand drive cars, an Isuzu truck and an old Corolla. The narrow, cracked road runs from Port-of-Spain in the west to Trincity in the east. 

Small concrete houses painted in bright yellows, bold blues, and vivid purples dot the foliage on the side of the road. A vomit-orange house sits disturbed only by the thick black lines of illegible graffiti on the wall. A tree branch grows through broken bricks where a wall once stood. The rusted galvanized metal roof cuts into a tree-trunk that has begun to grow around it. 

Bushes and shrubs overrun the tiny yard fenced in with a three-foot-high grey cement wall. A waxy large-leafed plant spreads its branches onto the road. The leaves cascade like a wedding dress draped around a bride. Tall grass with sprinkles of purple and yellow sweet pea’s sway in the sun, untouched. Splintered wooden boards cover where glass once stood, a window. An empty hole stands, haunting and gaping, with a shredded piece of wood still attached at the hinges near the bottom of the doorframe. 

“Did you have fun by Aunty Peggy?” Mom asks peeking at Eduardo in the rear-view mirror. 

“I guess. I was bored.” Eduardo mumbles, barely audible above Justin Bieber’s All Around the World blaring from the car speakers. 

I turn the dial and Justin’s deafening voice becomes a weary whisper in the background. 

“What about you Gabs?” Mom glances quickly at my direction and returns her gaze to the road. 

“I always love going by Aunty Pegs. She knows everything about the family history. She was showing me this cool document trail showing that we’re directly related to the Carib Amerindians that existed before Columbus.” I say. 

“I didn’t know that,” Mom says idly. 

“She also found documentation that we’re direct ancestors of the last Spanish governor of Trinidad, Don José María Chacon. Apparently, he was a big deal before the British took over.” I say. 

“That’s so interesting,” Mom says. Her eyes never leave the trail of potholes mimicking the blue dots on her phone guiding us home. 

“Yeah, and Uncle Wayne took me to the Mountain Retreat centre he’s building.” I take my Hello-Kitty-clad phone out and open my photo gallery. I swipe through a stream of photos of dainty wildflowers and tremendous trees. I land on the photo of the ridge, where Uncle Wayne built small cabins for people to sleep in the jungle of Santa Cruz. 

I flash the photo of the lilac and ocher sunset casting a glaze over the thick brush of jungle bundled in the ridge past the mountain. The blazing rays of the sun reach across the land, gently grazing the wildness from above, retreating reluctantly behind the horizon. 

“Beautiful! Wayne was telling me about it. He’s planning to build more cabins and leading spiritual retreats in the wilderness. Not me and that. Howler monkeys, snakes, panthers, and baboons. Makes me think anyone who sleeps there is mad!” 

“Uncle Wayne said that each cabin comes equipped with a machete just in case a Mapepire snake decides you look like lunch,” I laugh. 

“Machete or not, they don’t have enough anti-venom anywhere for a Mapepire. Not me and that.” She shakes her head. 

“Trinidad is so weird,” I say. “It’s basically Australia, everything can and will kill you if you give it a chance. Wild Iguana’s, those gross dog-rat things,”

Mom’s laugh interrupts me. “You mean an Agouti? Those nasty dog sized rats look like the piggy rats from Canada.” 

“You mean a possum?” I raise my eyebrows and play with the silicone ribbon of my gigantic Hello Kitty case. 

“Yes, a possum. Damned piggy rats.” 

Mom drives for five minutes up the road and stops at a small stop sign at the intersection between Eastern Maid Road and the road to nowhere. A large group of locals crowd around a house on a small hill. 

“Damn, I can’t get through these people. We’ll have to wait for them to pass,” Mom says. She shifts the car into park and our eyes turn to the colourful clothing and hypnotic movements of the dancing people. 

A large woman stands on the hill of the house. A body-sized plot of fresh-turned dirt sits next to her. Bright oranges, reds, and yellows run through the fabric of her garment. Bold, black shapes create a textured pattern that matches the scarf wrapped tightly on her head. Beads of what looks like bone sit on her chest. Feathers dot the beads, bending and swaying to the rhythm of the woman’s frantic body movements. 

My eyes widen, “Mom is that…”

“A grave? Yes.” 

Mom cracks the window a quarter of an inch. A loud, collective wailing wafts through the window. The bone lady stands on the top of the hill chanting in a language I don’t recognize. The sixty other people wail and scream to an unspoken rhythm. Their bodies sway in beat with the bone lady. 

The bone lady leans toward a headstone with a cross engraved in the middle. My eyes trail to the ground and seven body-sized mounds lay scattered across the small hill. Grass settles like dust across each grave. The green carpet covers the oldest mound, speckled with wildflowers. The grass bends and weaves to the rhythm of the cries. 

“It is time!” The bone lady raises her arms into the air. Two of the wailers dressed in bright red walk up to her on either side. The woman holds a chicken in her arms. Tears cascade down her cheeks. The man holds a small knife. The jewels on the hilt shatter the sunlight into a thousand colours. The bone lady takes the chicken by the neck in her left hand and the knife in her right. 

“Mom, is she gonna…” Before the words are out my mouth, the bone lady slices the chicken’s throat. Blood spurts out of the wound like a geyser. Scarlet tears stain the white feathers of the convulsing chicken. 

I gasp and grasp at mom’s arm. The bone lady sprinkles the blood over the headstone and onto the fresh grave. Blood courses down her arms and onto the ground. The chicken runs dry and the wailing stops. Silence. 

I can’t tear my eyes from the lifeless bird swaying in the bone lady’s hand. Blood drips down the headstone. The engraved cross fills up with the chicken’s life. After a moment, the woman in red cries out. The man walks over to her and his voice joins hers. The bone lady slices symbols into the air with the knife and raises her voice with the man and woman. One by one, each of the sixty people on the street cry out with them. The woman’s knees give out and she sobs into the blood-soaked dirt. The man kneels beside her and pulls her into his chest. 

The wails have no rhythm. No one sways. There is only the sound of a family losing its son. The sound of those two parents never seeing their child again. 

The bone lady silences the cries with one hand. 

“We are sad today.” The bone lady motions to the scarlet-clad couple. “Brother James and Sister Ophelia have lost their little boy. We have lost a member of our community. In the name of Jesus Christ, we cleanse his soul. In the name of Jesus Christ, we will see Jeramiah in heaven. Our Father, who art in heaven…”

The crowd prays with the bone lady. 

“Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…” 

Brother James holds his sobbing wife on the ground. Their tears flow silently now. 

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us…” 

Sister Ophelia looks up at the clear blue sky. Her face softens and she takes a deep breath. 

“For lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.” 

Sister Ophelia stands with her husband at her side. They stare down at the grave of their son. They raise their voices in solidarity with the crowd. 

“For thine is the Kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever amen.” 

“Amen. We are so deeply saddened by this senseless death, but in Jesus name, he is saved.” The bone lady motions for Brother James and Sister Ophelia to join her at the top of the hill. 

Together they sing, “Amazing Grace how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.”

The community sings with them, “I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see.” 

The bone lady leads the singing group towards the house behind them. 

“Looks like I can go now,” Mom says. 

“What did I just watch?” Eduardo says from the back. 

“Mom, that was so sad. But also, kinda scary,” I say. 

Mom puts the car in drive and continues down Eastern Main Road towards Trincity. 

“It’s a local religion. Nothing to be afraid of,” Mom says. 

“Dad would say its Obeah,” I say. 

“What’s Obeah?” Eduardo asks. 

“Voodoo, black magic, Dad says it’s all devil worship,” I say. 

“Your father is wrong. It’s not Obeah, it’s a Christian religion, didn’t you hear them recite the Our Father and sing Amazing Grace?” Mom’s eyebrows furrow.

“I guess, but the chicken mom!” I say. 

“It’s to cleanse the boy who died. I know you don’t understand, but you can’t judge them if you don’t know what they’re doing.” Mom glances at me. 

“I know, you’re right. I shouldn’t assume the worst,” I say. “But you know I’m vegan and seeing that poor chicken give it’s life for no reason really upset me.” 

“It wasn’t for no reason sweet pea. You just don’t know the reason. I know seeing the chicken die upset you. But imagine how those poor parents feel. Their son was taken from them. That chicken gave his life to make those parents feel a little less grief, believing that this will help their son get to heaven.” 

“But that’s not true,” I say. 

“But they don’t think that. They need every shred of hope and goodness they can get. This ritual gives them peace of mind. It’s hard enough to lose their son.” 

“I guess,” I say. 

We drive the rest of the way in silence. The bone lady sticks out in my mind. Bloodied hands over an open grave. 

Photo from: https://blog.blackfashionmag.com/post/65675050942/africanartagenda-peter-pharaoh-country