This is how
Author’s Note: This piece was inspired by Jamaica Kincaid’s work of short fiction, “Girl.” You can read her work here.
Wash the white clothes on Monday. Take his clothes first so they’re the first ones dry, first ones away before he’s home and can dirty them again. Colored clothes Tuesday. The little ones are in school screaming and you can hear them giggling in the rhythm of the clothes on the clothesline. Makes you want one, fear one. Makes you think of the recipes from mamma’s mouth, the ones you stir up to get out the trouble from a woman’s stomach, poof.
Rinse the cloths cold when you’re done wiping the red from your legs. Don’t let him come home with something to raise his hand at. Hide the signs that bleed you are a woman but walk like a lady from the bathroom to the kitchen.
Wednesday take the pumpkin fritters and listen to the oil hit the flavor, burn, sizzle, hotter than the sun. This is a woman’s place; this is our place. We are good listeners. Quiet except the oil and the swaying of hips for music we don’t sing in church on Sundays. The children outside yelling in the streets with not-yet-broken voices, you can hear the boys calling and the girls getting quieter.
Fish on Friday if there’s nothing new. The oil sounds dull and bad, it knows sometimes there is a bully or a bull coming home. Eat just so much that he always has room for more. Listen when he yells in your ear, washes the inside with his spit not clean of dinner. Feel the oil drip while you listen. Love him. You love him.
Friday he loves you. Think that the bed was built by the strong hands around your sides, grabbing, pushing. Hear the crickets’ singing while he’s loving you. Rise early after the nightdress is torn and sow the bottom so he can rip it again and you can listen to the sound.
This is how to give up on loving without giving up on living. Breathe softly while he snores and close your eyes to the stars.
Sunday stand carefully over the toilet as the blood drips down again, screaming no family, not you. Wash your legs clean. Get it out from under your fingernails. Timely. Soak the cloth right after so the red doesn’t show in the house and you can kneel in church still praying about tomorrows. Listen to the children sing on an empty stomach.