I remember my mother saying to me as a small child, “let’s go for a ride.” I was never sure exactly why, whenever I asked, “where we were going,” her response was always the same, “we’re just riding.” There was never any particular destination or route but it was always very scenic, away from the city, somewhere green, where nature was unobstructed. I wasn’t sure if she had something on her mind or just wanted to relax, she never said. She didn’t play the radio and words were seldom exchanged. We drove along quietly, taking in all the shapes and colors of nature. For me, It was both tranquil and euphoric. I have no idea how long these trips lasted, time was irrelevant, at least to me—I felt free, immersed in the landscape as we cruised along the country roads. Whatever my thoughts were prior to our journey, they were vanished upon returning home. For the rest of that day I would experience a pleasant calmness. I’ve continued this ritual over the years with my own children when they were young, albeit, it was usually to help them fall asleep so I could study. Nevertheless, this practice has helped me to value the journey of life as much as the destination—thanks mom! I’m still, “just riding.”
The two had been working together for nearly 10 years now. The old man spoke to the young apprentice with a firm urgency in his voice, “skim-it!” The young lad, without a moment’s hesitation, hurried to the woodshop with plank in hand. Nervously returning, handed the old master carver the piece of wood, attentively listening, observing every moan and grimace on the old man’s face as he adjusted the board into position — “ahhh, perfect!” Sighed the gray bearded elder. The corners of his mouth gently raised, revealing the faintest smile. “How did you know,” said the old man, “I just measured a blade’s width,” the youth replied. With that the old man reached down, his cracked leathery hands mirroring the worn dark brown tool belt around his waist. Releasing the buckle, he placed it around the youthful waist of the young master – turned and slowly walked away. The young man stood silently, with water-glazed eyes he watched his father’s silhouette fade, completely confident in his training and the legacy that hung about his waist.
Black humid nights sticking to my skin, street lights illuminate the hazy air, a pothole I didn’t see. Black art—graffiti decorates the steel-gray curtains that protect the trinkets in the corner store at 4th and Rhode Island. The little Arab man sits in the sealed glass booth across the street, pushing petro beneath the British sun—quietly he sells the assistance needed to roll and blow. Ambient noise surrounded by silence; glazed eyes, like deer, like zombies, piercing the window of every passing vehicle—focused. Empty space full of plight, of black, of despair. A war on hope, on hugs, ambition on drugs.
Watchers peeking through the blinds from above, observing, listening to the street babble, seeing but not seen—like leery prey perched in the jungle trees, shielded by darkness. A scream, a moan, a flashing light, there’s blood in the street—on my hands, my shirt—oozing from her nostrils, draining from her ears. On the pavement, a bleeding stone lay next to her head, a small dent, a breach, just above the left temple. A glazed gaze, a desperate stare, her eyes fixed upon my face as I push—quietly chanting the rescue mantra, 1 and 2 and 3… Unconscious-ly, we both know the time. A lingering cryptic smile fades to the other side.
I continue pushing protocol against the obvious, the odds, against the reality of blackness, 329 and counting. So young—whose daughter, sister, mother—who’s next? They lift her body into the red and white box with the spinning lights, and Asclepius fades into the night. The street sweeper comes just before dawn, just before work. Traffic flows and never they know how humid was the night.
Twenty-three calls—watching debris fall, fire in the sky, struggling to breathe, black smoke in my throat choking my thoughts, I can’t see, temperature’s rising, goddamnit, somebody please vent the roof!
Stripped down, trying to remove the carbon residue and grime that clogs my pores—thick, soot-tinged mucus, mixed with a hint of gore, erupts from my lungs when I cough, onto the shower floor and oozes down the trough as I manipulate the shower head in a circular motion; have to wash it down, have to get clean. Close my eyes as the lukewarm water sanitize my mind, envisioning the waterfalls of Trinidad—I was there once, standing on the black shiny rocks under the cliff, the waters of heaven flowed down upon my head—mmm, it felt good, I was clean then.
Fatigued—sitting in the dark, slumped over and dripping. Dark spaces, black faces between my thoughts. So many images etched in my mind, but this one, her face, had an eerie familiarity. Dried and dressed, gear bag slung over shoulder. A silent morning. Words seems out of place—quietly exiting the station. I nod good morning to Dave in the parking lot as he assumes duty. He nods back, no words are exchanged—none are needed.
Engine started, sitting, thinking: I’ve got to get home! It’s 6:00 am, moving against traffic on my way home, the people are rising with the sun—with hope. Pulling into my driveway, and notice how green the cone-shaped Leyland cypresses in the front yard are, grass perfectly edged, the ancient twisted limbs of the Japanese maple. The colorful arrangement of the flower garden. A moment to gather before going in, still I sit and listen to the morning wren. Slowly placing my key in the door, on the other side, behold—the smile, the face of angels—but never a word about how humid was the night.
