Claire Yeomans 2005

The day was made of shards of light. Silver on water, matte green cast translucent by
the sun. I walked towards the river peeling off the layers of my clothes, abandoning
them to the dust under my feet. Along the waters edge insects skittered and danced,
ducked and weaved, and died a slow summer’s death in the hot pockets of water. The
earth was warm under my feet as I slipped my toes into the soft folds of mud. I
watched the water float over my pale feet, untouched by the sun.

As a child I wrote my secrets on the soles of my feet because no one ever
checked there. Although it may have tickled a bit, a little laughter never hurt anyone.
Since that time I have carried my soul on my soles and my heart between my toes.

The water creeps up slowly and wraps itself softly around my ankles. The ink
catches on the stray strands of hair I missed shaving with a blunt razor. I take two
steps forward and the water slides over the curves of my calves. By the time it hits my
knees there’s a chill seeping in. My legs are blue, but be it the rising ink or the waters
chill I can’t tell. Another step and the insides of my thighs are painted too. Words that
span a lifetime start to smear and smudge as the water rises. Displacing, disgracing
my memories of you. By the time the water hits my stomach the ink has started to
spread and break, slip and slide, and all my secrets are revealed, reviled. Blooming
bellies are hard to miss. Not like feet wrapped up tight in socks and shoes. Bellies
give away a whole world of secrets, a life of secrets. An inhale and an exhale, and a
little piece of me that became way too big, after you became way too small.

Three generations of women had been raised on the fleshy pulp of mangos,
and I was no exception. As a child I thought there was magic in everything. I longed
to leave my dirty fingerprints on every surface.

I remember that life passed like a dream. That it was summer scented.

In red velvet slippers, hidden under ink, I would place rose petals. Through out
the long tread of a dusty day the smell would drift up around my calves and tickle the
backs of my knees.


When I was nine I loved a boy who lived at the end of my street. Every day I
would hide in the big oak tree that grew on the border of his property and write his
name, slowly, carefully, in the crook of my left arm. During the day the ink would
work its way into the sweaty creases. It would seep into my skin and float to my heart.

When I wasn’t hidden in a montage of green and gold, sweating love, I would
spend the long stretch of my days picking blackberries in the valley behind my house.
I would pull them apart ball by little ball and the juice would stain my fingers a
bruised red. It would aggravate the scratches on the backs of my hands and mix
stickily with my blood.

On other days, I would sit with my feet hanging over the worn, soft edges of
the back veranda and chew cherries slowly. I would paint my lips with their juice and
then let the pip roll around the soft inside of my mouth and smoothly over my tongue.
But, I always remembered to eat them in moderation because too many cherries will
make you go crazy, or so my Nana had said.

Mr. Fitzpaa-a-a-ta-rick had a mango tree and my Nana had dirty knees. Two
lifetimes ago, the mangos fell and lay ripe and bursting on the ground, leaked their
sticky sweet juices into the dark earth. The smell would carry on the breeze, so bright,
so orange, so sweet, the children of the neighbourhood felt they could almost lick the
taste off their fingers. That smell was the phantom of long summers.

There was a chicken wire fence between desire and satisfaction, between
temptation and sin. Mango in hand my nana wiggled her girlish form through a hole
in the fence while the scent of it crept its way up her smooth skin. It slipped over the
small curve of her budding breasts then tangled in the few sprouting hairs of her damp
armpits. It slid its way up her neck and over her face. Reaching her delicate nostrils it
sketched a figure eight around them, stretching its scent into infinity, before cascading
into her lungs on an inhale.

She was halfway through the fence, only her slim hips and skinny legs trailing
behind her. With a whisper of guilt she thought of Eve, and clutched the fruit even
tighter. She glanced at her siblings and noticed that a slow pale had started to undercut
the ruddy glow of their summer skin. She looked back and took in the image that had
widened their eyes and made them step back, step away.


Mr. Fitzpatrick running towards her with the wrath of God behind him and
Satan’s pitchfork held in front, the four prongs pointing straight at her bottom.
Frantically she wriggled and squirmed trying to free herself from the wire that had
snagged her school uniform. She could hear a thunder of footfalls behind her, and a
hammering in her chest. Then, finally, a rip as her dress tore allowing her to scramble
free of the fence. Once free, she ran, gripping the mango so hard it bruised. Only
when she was far enough away to be safe did she look back. Mango in hand and a
small, triumphant smile on her face, she watched Mr. Fitzpatrick dance like his feet
were on fire behind the wire fence, pitchfork raised to the heavens.

The stories which created my childhood were always golden tinged. They
would seep from the mouths of my mother and grandmother, and slowly drip down
their chins.

I was curled safe in the warmth of my mothers extended belly, as she floated
naked and round in a bath of near cold water. The heat of the day buckled around her
and the sweat seeped from her pores to create rainbow patterns in the water. Paint her
in shards of light. With wet hair, wet hands, she dug her nails deep into golden flesh
and pulled back a layer of skin. A flood of juices exploded and ran down her forearms
in sticky rivulets. Then, slowly, she put the soft pulp of the mango to her lips. She
sucked and chewed and swallowed the sun. Inside her womb I swam in nectar.

Mangos were the fruit of my soul. But, when I had met you, my love, you had
hated them. Thought them sickly. I had to entice you, for if you could not love
mangos you could not love me completely. Slowly, over the long sticky days of our
first summer together, I fed you pieces of mango that were coated with the love I was
raised on, garnished with stories. Within each piece of pulp I hid a fragment of my
heart. Covered in soft nectar, I slipped between your teeth and you swallowed me
whole.

I wrap my arms around the bloom of my belly as I walk farther out into the
muddy water. I allow my feet to drift out from under me and rise up to the surface. I
sink a little, heavier with a weight that is not mine, as my hair moves around me like a
wedding veil. I tip my head back and let the soft, brown water cover my eyes, wash


away the tears collected on my lashes. My arms drift away from my belly and float

like the sticks and leaves that swirl in the dirty water.

I can hardly bare the weight.

I don’t know if I can wait this out to bare the only piece of you that still
remains.

I take a deep breath and dip my face under the water, turn it to salt, spin under
and curl myself into the shape of the foetus within me.

Under this water your fingers still burn. Your tongue, your touch. I open my
lips and let your soul rush in. Can’t whisper a scream.

When you entered my life I had found a new and untouched place on my body
to write your name in ink. I buried you deep in the soft hair of my underarm. Let you
melt there wetly, lost in a tangle of soft gold. You would kiss that spot, your name
written there, and thank me for keeping you safe; close to my heart, sheltered under
my wing.

I didn’t feel the bruise. That moment, that instant. It crept quietly up upon me
on cotton feet and slipped inside. There was nothing but the cold compress of words
carried on the lukewarm of his breath. When he knocked quietly on my door there
were shadows in his eyes, the landscape of his face was filled with them, gathering
like storm clouds pregnant with rain and the knowledge of dark days ahead. The
memory of the accident was still smeared across the soft pale of his features, and as
he spoke the air around his mouth trembled. It moved with a slow stutter to ricochet
around the concaves of my ears. Finally it nestled into the soft tissue of my brain.
With a few slow, broken words he etched sadness into my skin. He reached between
my toes and up under my arm and he wiped you away in an instant.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

I open my eyes.

From within me I feel you. Small movement, small heart. Not you, but nearly
so. Bubbles, you feel like bubbles. Small internal fireworks. Around me the water is
salt. Is mud. Is sticks and limbs. This is not nectar. Within me our love blooms. It is


not tarnished. It kicks. So, I kick and surface. I push myself towards the edge of the
river, crawl through water and mud. I drag myself up on to the embankment and curl
my arms around my belly, around you, around a new us, and weep. Weep for the
stories that have washed away and, for the blank parchment that is left.

I raised our daughter on mangos and cherries, stories and ink. On the day she
first asked about you I wrote your name on the soles of her feet. I told her that you
would always be with her, that you would take every step of her life with her. It
tickled her a little and she giggled, but a little laughter never hurt anyone.


‘mangos, cherries & ink’

Claire Yeomans 2005