As I See It

I was born on a September Eve, the same day as the hurricane hit Louisiana. The same day that my Pappa died in the flood. She had fled, Mamma, to keep away from the waters, taken Mojo the mutt and run like the devil was chasin’ her. And he was, at least the devil that lives in the deeps of the ocean. She was ridin’ fast and furious toward the Texas border, she believed then that the waters were scared of the Lonestar state. They wasn’t, as she found out later, they wasn’t afraid of anything.

I was born in a car, I was early and tiny, but screamin’, she said later, screamin’ like I knew what was chasin’ us. My skin was like greased porcelain, she said, but she didn’t care. My lips looked like tiny rosebuds in spring, soft and delicate, she said she had to kiss them. Even then, she knew I was special. I suppose Mamma’s think that about all their babies, faith in the little one’s, wishin’ for better than they got themselves. My Mamma, she was right though, more than you may think.

It was strangely warm that night, the wind from the ocean seemed to set a deep and moist blanket over everything it touched, cursing the land in it’s invasion. The first hospital Mamma came to was in a town called Newton, like fig or Sir Isaac, I suppose. The docs thought Mamma was a pioneer woman, deliverin’ a baby in the backseat of a car with the assistance of a mangy mutt. Mamma said when you have no choices it’s pretty easy to make the right one, or the one that seems heroic.

She named me Julip, she said I was sweet like sugar and strong like the bourben that made her favorite drink so good. But, Mamma said, the mint leaves must be bruised, sometimes even crushed, to bring out their flavor, and most likely, so would I. Mamma was smiling, but sad all the same when she said it. Sad cause she knew more than a Mamma should. She fell then, into a deep sleep, and dreamed of Pappa lookin’ at her through a dingy glass door. Smilin, his grey eyes full of tears, but his mouth was smilin’. She wasn’t surprised when the air had cleared around Lake Charles, when they were able to get out, families be reunited, that Pappa didn’t come. That he never would come.

She was good about it, never one to make a big fuss, full of untapped power and strong, sweet tenderness. She said she patted Mojo’s head, kissed my round cheeks, and cried just a little that I would never know him, the man she called Mister. She would later tell me stories about his soft, strong hands, his loud laugh, the kind that fills a room with joy and forces you to smile. She would pretend that he was just a man to her, just her partner in the world she left; but I would always know, deep down, he was more to her than air.

She picked herself up then and set about creating a new life, carving it out of grief and deep, deep pain. Out of loss came a home, with a white door and a tiny rose garden. Mamma took a job with one of those doctors there in Newton, one of the one’s who thought she was a pioneer, named Dr. Longbow. He liked her spirit and that she could type, she liked that he paid well and they had a daycare. Mamma calls those kind of relationships symbiotic.

She did filing, answered his phone, and set his schedule. Just normal stuff, stuff Mamma never thought she’d be doin’, but stuff she was thankful to have to do. It was like that for a long time, Mamma, Mojo and me, goin’ and comin’, comin and goin’. Then one day, when Mojo was too old to see, and couldn’t hardly hear me, he went out to the yard and was out there for a while. A while too long. When I found him he was cold, long gone. I touched his fur, wonderin’ if he knew I was touchin’ it, and cried. It wasn’t until my tears hit his fur, salty and warm, from the deepest place within me I knew I had, that I discovered why I was so special.

Mojo flipped over in my hands, licked my nose like a thank you, and trotted away. He was Mojo again, but he was young, alive, and he was gonna get me into a heap of trouble.