Just Read It

I was married on the seventh day of the seventh month. A perfect day. I stood at the church altar in the full bloom of first love. White dress, white roses clasped in my white gloved hands, entwined with Grandmami’s blue rosary beads. You by my side, handsome, tall and proud. When it was time to kiss the bride, you bit my bottom lip and smiled as you licked away the blood.

I’m happy, I told myself. At first. You brought me red roses, often. You love me, right, you said. It was not a question. I nodded dutifully and tried not to think about your bloodshot whisky-eyes, and the cruel fury of your closed fist. 

The night I limped my way to Grandmami’s place by the river, I prayed she wouldn’t send me back home, like Daddy and Mama did that one time. “Your place is with your husband, not here,” Daddy intoned heavily in his preacher’s voice. Mama looked away. I bowed my head in anguish and shame. 

“Baby girl you need to make a decision,” Grandmami said, taking my hands in hers. “What’s it gonna be?” I fixed my eyes on Yemayá, mother of all Orishas and protector of women, seated on the white-covered altar surrounded by candles, cowrie shells, white roses and Grandmami’s blue rosary beads. I thought about the two lines on the stick I peed on that morning. I went home the next day, but not before Grandmami pressed a packet of herbs into my hands.

I look out of the kitchen window overlooking the garden. Maame, my daughter, hosts a tea party for her dolls. I smile. Today is my seventh wedding anniversary. The rose bushes are in full bloom. Red, like the blood weeping from your eyes that day as you fought for your last breath.

Photo by Alessio Soggetti on Unsplash