that and then just move on.”
“But straight couples do it all the time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They don’t do it all the time. In any case, that is what marriage is for.”
Aware that we were now locked in our usual dance of push and pull, and grateful to her for this backhanded caring, I lightened up and teased. “Oh, so you’re advocating on behalf of lesbians for the right to marry, now?”
My mother sucked her teeth and got up. At the door she turned, the compassion that was being so indirectly conveyed by her words evident in her drawn features. She said, “If you had stayed in that relationship, you would have had a child of, what? Sixteen years, now? You wouldn’t be going into your older years on your own. You would have someone in your old age.” No doubt embarrassed by this display of emotion, my mother couldn’t leave it at that. She had to add, “You’re not getting younger, you know. And you’re clearly not looking after yourself. Look at you. You’ve seen how slim Gita is keeping herself, and she has a son! I don’t understand all of this instability, this kind of life you people live.”
Like a child, I yelled, “Mu-um,” ready again to engage with her, but she walked out and closed the door behind her.
It was unlikely that Mum would follow me out into the sun, so I decided to camp out by the pool. On that day, the light seemed brighter than I had ever known it to be. I found myself having contradictory and mawkish thoughts:how dare a day without Zain be so radiant, and could such brilliance be the result of Zain looking down, beaming on our little island? The lawn was an even dark green in colour, and each fat blade of grass lay against the next in a haphazard yet perfect pattern carpeting the earth beneath. The garden had grown thicker and older, more lush. A new planting here or there was a pleasant surprise and I made a mental note of each: they could be a neutral topic of conversation between my mother and me. The bougainvillea I remembered as a small shrub growing out of a pot now trailed over the pool’s back fence and was covered along the top with indigo flowers. Hibiscus, datura, ferns, ornamental grasses, dracaenas, and heliconias known as sexy pink, were all perfect, like specimens from a botanical garden. They were Mum’s pride, and I felt my own swell remembering the name of each. A grey-green lizard about six inches long ran along the midrib of a low-hanging branch of one of the dwarf coconut trees, the toes of its feet splayed. It lifted its upper body, pushed itself up on its front legs and turned its head to watch me. We stared at each other. It blinked first. Clouds so thin they were almost invisible passed in front of the sun, and the brilliant light dimmed ever so slightly for a second or two before becoming blindingly bright again. When we were children we were often warned not to look directly at the sun. We’d go blind, we were told. But such light compelled one to turn in the direction of its source. I did so, and reflected on how Zain and I had gotten away with so much when we were together. She was my foil, myalibi, the screen behind which I could be myself. Now what?
The lizard dropped its elbows, lowered its body back onto the leaf’s spine and stared straight down its skeletal nose. The skin under its neck, lighter in colour than its back, was fleshy. I thought of Jonathan, sixteen then, probably too old to care about lizards.
More than once, even as I reflected on Zain’s death, painfully aware of her absence, I made the move to rush back inside the house to telephone her and announce that I’d arrived home, to ask her to come and fetch me and take me for a drive around the country. I was in my parents’ house, in my childhood home, but I was lost. What was I here in Trinidad, without my dearest Zain?
Everything within the gates of this property, I reflected, is mine to share with Gita. The pool, the ample wrought-iron chairs and tables, the
“But straight couples do it all the time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They don’t do it all the time. In any case, that is what marriage is for.”
Aware that we were now locked in our usual dance of push and pull, and grateful to her for this backhanded caring, I lightened up and teased. “Oh, so you’re advocating on behalf of lesbians for the right to marry, now?”
My mother sucked her teeth and got up. At the door she turned, the compassion that was being so indirectly conveyed by her words evident in her drawn features. She said, “If you had stayed in that relationship, you would have had a child of, what? Sixteen years, now? You wouldn’t be going into your older years on your own. You would have someone in your old age.” No doubt embarrassed by this display of emotion, my mother couldn’t leave it at that. She had to add, “You’re not getting younger, you know. And you’re clearly not looking after yourself. Look at you. You’ve seen how slim Gita is keeping herself, and she has a son! I don’t understand all of this instability, this kind of life you people live.”
Like a child, I yelled, “Mu-um,” ready again to engage with her, but she walked out and closed the door behind her.
It was unlikely that Mum would follow me out into the sun, so I decided to camp out by the pool. On that day, the light seemed brighter than I had ever known it to be. I found myself having contradictory and mawkish thoughts:how dare a day without Zain be so radiant, and could such brilliance be the result of Zain looking down, beaming on our little island? The lawn was an even dark green in colour, and each fat blade of grass lay against the next in a haphazard yet perfect pattern carpeting the earth beneath. The garden had grown thicker and older, more lush. A new planting here or there was a pleasant surprise and I made a mental note of each: they could be a neutral topic of conversation between my mother and me. The bougainvillea I remembered as a small shrub growing out of a pot now trailed over the pool’s back fence and was covered along the top with indigo flowers. Hibiscus, datura, ferns, ornamental grasses, dracaenas, and heliconias known as sexy pink, were all perfect, like specimens from a botanical garden. They were Mum’s pride, and I felt my own swell remembering the name of each. A grey-green lizard about six inches long ran along the midrib of a low-hanging branch of one of the dwarf coconut trees, the toes of its feet splayed. It lifted its upper body, pushed itself up on its front legs and turned its head to watch me. We stared at each other. It blinked first. Clouds so thin they were almost invisible passed in front of the sun, and the brilliant light dimmed ever so slightly for a second or two before becoming blindingly bright again. When we were children we were often warned not to look directly at the sun. We’d go blind, we were told. But such light compelled one to turn in the direction of its source. I did so, and reflected on how Zain and I had gotten away with so much when we were together. She was my foil, myalibi, the screen behind which I could be myself. Now what?
The lizard dropped its elbows, lowered its body back onto the leaf’s spine and stared straight down its skeletal nose. The skin under its neck, lighter in colour than its back, was fleshy. I thought of Jonathan, sixteen then, probably too old to care about lizards.
More than once, even as I reflected on Zain’s death, painfully aware of her absence, I made the move to rush back inside the house to telephone her and announce that I’d arrived home, to ask her to come and fetch me and take me for a drive around the country. I was in my parents’ house, in my childhood home, but I was lost. What was I here in Trinidad, without my dearest Zain?
Everything within the gates of this property, I reflected, is mine to share with Gita. The pool, the ample wrought-iron chairs and tables, the
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