Alligator Skin

          I'm up and away from the earth's mortal ground, where blood is spilled upon nature's soil, where the deserts are flooding with the prophecy's ancient waters. To the landslides, which are collapsing down from their royal seats above in the sky to the barren ground of the poor. You may think that I should be glad to be away from this tarnished utopia, where we kill and kill our own bones and pick each other's eyes out in the name of a higher power. To prove that what runs in my veins is superior to the lies that I believe run in yours. But to some foolish joke, I revoke God's will to lift me from my shell of a body too soon..; what I would give to trade my place in the universe to the boy I was in the past who still has his feet touching the ground, walking around aimlessly. Now I beg the eternal light to let me tread the path I see so clearly in hindsight. This regret that sits within me is seething while it eats up my bones and muscles, to my pride, and honor. The punishment that this simple word, regret, holds sinks in every inch of me leaving me unable to muster up even a will. All I'm left to do is close and open my eyes to spectate the effect of the disaster I've caused upon my daughter who had to endure my young, foolish mistakes.

      The sky is miraculously clear tonight. The stars don't shy away from my gaze as they seem to flicker in the night. The street is misty with dew dripping off of the palm tree that stands in front of my family's clay house. The window is open letting fresh air into the house carrying out the smell of the beef stew that Badar Jahaan has spent the day creating, with her mysterious concoctions her sisters’ who brought her up carried down to her, that her mother gave to them, stemming up their family tree. She uses those recipes today representing the legacy that their women, despite their suffering, take pride in; even throughout the treacherous migration, which enabled her family to follow the path to their homeland. This gets me thinking of my Mama. How Badar Jahaan, her beautiful name translates to ‘full moon of the world’ from Arabic to English, renounces her awfully stubborn nature. Though, she is aware that her daughter has a pure, yet tainted heart. She understands that she didn't give enough time to Mama as Mama didn’t give any to me. Blockages run throughout our family, they fill us up with a desolate silence, leaving us with narrowing patience. One day we let go, like gathering up the changing fall leaves one by one, until a gust of wind knocks us over.

     Cats scurry across the pavement, making their way to my feet and waiting as I open cans of tuna and packed beef to feed them. I stand outside internally counting the minutes passed, hoping for time to speed up.  Eventually, the clock will pass nine-thirty, the time where you will arrive home and I can watch you paint. I tread my feet across the little path that leads to the front door, coming to the conclusion that you’re going to be home late. Just then I noticed the beam of your flashlight— revealing the rubble and dust on the pavement. Looking down I catch the light making out the embroidered orchids on the fabric of my boots as they splinter out of the clean stitch that Ma created years ago. Maybe this is representing the fraying rope that is tied around your hand Mama, as you use the scarce strength that you have left to hold on until one day it will snap.

      Just like that, a beam of white luminescence creates a flush of images, causing a stinging pain that resonates in my head. My eyes clench together, and while waiting for the pain to subside, an old memory unearths itself from the desert of the past; one I had forgotten. In it was Daddy, Mama, and myself in some vehicle where the color was washed away in the attic of my mind. It was probably Daddy’s old car which had gotten wrecked in the crash that sent him to heaven, a detail I strain to forget. Outside the window is, what seems to be an unfocused eye, an island filled with millions of stars. I heard Daddy’s subtle voice in my head saying something about how this was the city he was born in, my mind slowly trying to remember which specific city he said,  the word lingering just at the tip of my tongue. I see the picture of the city again, how the stars turn into lights from a building, contrasting from the night sky and reflecting onto the ocean's surface. It felt so calm and peaceful despite the cold air being harsh against my red face and sensitive nose. Up in the drivers area, Ma and Pa are holding hands; both people seem so foreign to me, even though I still have Ma with me. I never got to know my father, partially because he died a few years back, but mainly because of the accident that had occurred to my head. It clears my mind out of most of my memories and makes it hard to think sometimes. It gave me severe aches, the horrible pain like a drill is being set to the temple of my skull, pushing down to the soft tissue of my brain with reverberating vibrations sent down to my eyes and neck. Ma never told me what had happened, but by the way it causes a watery sheen to her eyes, glossy like a doll's beaded eyes, I could tell that it must’ve been terrible. In this memory, Ma seemed to be warm—with color still in her hair, and her body seemed relaxed; no straining of her eyes or shaking in her fingers. The deep, light pink scar that runs from under her right eye to her jawline on her pale skin has ceased to appear.  After a few scarce minutes, clarity reaches me once again. Slowly, my head returns to earth, snapping out of yet another looping daydream that keeps me paralyzed in the aerials of another, fairer world. In this landscape of a time that has passed and can never be returned to, nostalgia and deja vu seem to be filling the air, so thick it could suffocate me. This feeling of knowing that these moments have happened, yet can’t be fully uncovered will always be disappointing. I wish I wouldn't have to say these next few words to my dear mother, who has dealt with life's cruel wind that endlessly blows with the grief of ghosts and tortured souls.“Mama, you seem tired,” I say. She always seems worn out, but judging from the fog that seems to block out any frays of light or yearning for more in her eyes, I could tell that she had experienced the worst today yet again. What was it called again, Mama? Those moments where you forget where you are and go someplace else, falling to the ground, and screaming for someone in your mysterious imagination to get away from you. You wanted them to leave and never return. At one point you had said daddy's name, which didn't make sense to me then, and still doesn’t now. It was some complex, medical term but I see them as attacks. Like your nervous system is shattering as it breaks its loyalty, and ultimately betrays you. Today was just another day in which everything you knew and cared about on a canvas was denied for not being enough from another gallery just like the hundreds before. Ever since we lost all our money, finding work has been a lot more tough. As an artist, finding work is hard; unfit for the weak. Every animation studio, illustration jobs, and galleries, has turned you down here in south Florida. You told me that you missed your job that you had working as a 2D animator at a small studio that was two hours away. You said on one of your lonely nights, that it was the only time you could escape from Daddy, how you would refrain from crying each time you had to come back home on the bus, saying that you would only come back for me, remembering distinctly the reminiscent, and burdening smile you held on your face. I wish I was old enough to go out and make money to support us. One day I tried to do so by selling lemonade just outside of our house, obeying your rules about going anywhere I stayed put, but it is empty here on Mark Twain Street — leaving no one to sell lemonade to.

       Usually, you're without the ability to speak, leaving conversations an unexpected gift whenever you choose to give them; but today you seem to be trying hard to muster up the energy to work your mouth to speak, despite the powerless state you’re in, you continue to move through the vowels and consonants that make up words. You respond, “Do I? I feel perfectly fine. I'm eager for our lessons today, my Sana.” She looked at me and put her hand on my head muttering a little prayer, a regular habit of yours. Once more you address me, “Today my darling we are going to paint a scenic view of a sunset on top of the sea, with just three colors, isn't that fantastic?”. You don’t fool me Mama. I knew you were trying to look happier today, I could always tell when you were putting on a face just to keep me from worrying.. 

       I knew from the fact that there was no news about getting a job, that the next few weeks we were going to be eating simple meals: a muffin in the morning, corn soup for lunch, olives as a snack, and omelets for dinner. You start walking into the house, with me lurking behind—suddenly speaking of the withering garden that wraps around our small one story.  “The roses are starting to wilt with the winter breeze. Remind me to teach you how to paint nature from life one of these days, before they die”.

       When we entered the house, the fire had gone out.  Leaving rubies of ashes lying in the burnt firewood glimmering with the bright crimson color before eventually losing its color. Badar Jahaan, calls out for Mama speaking in her hot-tempered way; with words that are heard too often. “Yet again you come home with no money and with those canvases still in your trunk?”. She has piercing eyes which slowly lose their intimidation and sharpness, as she long understood her daughters stubbornness which she has adopted from her. Badar Jahaan once told me that she admired Mama for her strength and resilience, that she was the strongest being she’d ever known, which would always make me feel proud to be the daughter of such a strong woman. Sometimes, there comes a wandering thought that finds its way into the cracks and crevices of my brain— infiltrating the stream of burdens I carry, venturing its way to the one that has been anchored at the bottom of the water. It is the weight of knowing deep down that no matter how much I beg for Mama to change the ways that are slowly destroying her, she won't ever back down; not even to my face. She will say “Sana, I'm getting to be pretty old right? I mean, just look at this gray rat nest on top of my head” she jokes, pointing to her hair with a humorous smile, “and with my sagging skin and these terrible, terrible scars.” When she said this, I could see her eyes flashing with a look as if she was trying to hold back a ravenous animal trying to claw its way out. “Habits are hard to fix, it's like finding a rusted lock after all the years of ignoring its presence and trying to find a key in the abyss that with hope it unlocks. I don't need hope, I just need to survive and for the sun that shines enough of its spirit to reach the pores of my skin and revive me from the horrors of everyday life”. 

      Badar Jahaan packs up the book which lies on its spine on top of the wooden table she told me Daddy had created by shaving the log of a tree to create a cylinder stump then screw-driving a porcelain plate made by Ma on top. It has an ancient design that was traditionally a henna flower, it sprawls with swirls put on the hands of women and girls, but Mama with her way of inventing new from the old was able to produce unique markings to put around the flowers. They represent the contributions that we as a family give with symbols from nature: an eye, a marigold, and the crescent moon.  In Ma´s words, she would say: ¨A family is a pact where when one is lost we all are, one sheds tears and the rest does. We are uniquely made, but our blueprint does not defy us, uniting us, like the sea shells with their own distinct bodies and colors they hold but they all return to the one sea”. Pillows surround it serving as seats for us to share a meal. Badar Jahaan started speaking again, looking at me with her small eyes rounded with dark black kohl. “ I made beef stew, especially for my dear Sana.” She walked over to Mama and whispered some faint threat that probably goes like ¨I’ve spent my own money on the past month's meals including this one. Get your act straight my daughter, and find a job somewhere. You’ve been unemployed for too long, and it's time to sacrifice your dreams, just for now. Get a normal job with a steady income. You need to start saving for the sake of Sana”.

       I watch her leave the barren, leaving a room that shines with sporadic remnants of the old mama that moved in here freshly married to Daddy: with its glass-made peacocks on the table, a candle on the small side table next to the sofa— which hasn't been lit not once my whole life but I'm sure at some point before I was born it used to shine radiantly; and my favorite part of the house: Abu’s and Ma’s paintings. They complement each other so well, with Ma’s powerful portraits demonstrating the integrity and humility that is shown on the human face. She highlights this with each brilliant paint stroke of people who have shaped their own path no matter the circumstance. Ma always had a deep admiration for courage despite obstacles, which stood out in her paintings, especially in the eyes. Most of the people were met on her travels when she was young in her twenties, before she met daddy, traveling the south and east asian continents, learning the way they create. She found art in almost everything, even the most obscure was bewitching to the artist within her. Daddy’s paintings were serene with light washed-out colors. My favorite is called “A Shooting Star Fell”, a painting done before I was born and when Daddy was once a vivid character; before his addiction. The canvas consists of Daddy’s family, who I've never in my life had a chance to encounter, running along the Daytona Beach. The sun is setting, leaving the sky to evolve into a dark blue full of complex shades that fascinate me still.  In my eyes his paintings represent a past memory, increasingly losing its color as the pigment of the paint grows weak as a memory does, becoming unclear with time. In the corner of my eye, I watch Sana gather her orange flowy shawl. I'm trying to focus on Mama’s subtle expression as she dissolves the words of a loved one, yet again proving how useless it seems to be to try to change someone who does not want to be changed. She moved toward the pots, pouring the meal onto two plates— one for me and for her. Before she left, Badar Jahaan came up to me and gave me a kiss then spoke a goodnight. She walked out the door before speaking, touching the broken frame of the corroded door. “Revise your notes from today Sana Jan. I’ll be arriving a bit late tomorrow, due to a doctor’s appointment I have in the morning”.

      The spoon enters and leaves my mouth in a fast manner, I eat my food as fast as possible without causing an upset stomach. My blood rushes with anticipation for yet another lesson. I’ve been receiving these breaks in the days where I learn about my father’s and mother's beloved craft for years— since I was seven, and I was able to comprehend it now, being 12. Mama teaches me how to shatter my perspective on life and create something that is bigger than a human, lasting on this earth for longer than us. 

This is true art.    

     Mama gets up with both her and my plates in her hand, dropping the plates in the sink. She gathers up soap into the dip of the bowl and uses a sponge to lather it in bubbles, and then rinse. Pushing up from the kneeling position in which we eat, I walk over to the room on the right of the entrance to the painting room. There are two easels with stools set in front of them in a way that when we paint we are set face-to-face, to avoid similarities during the process of creating. Secrecy when painting is an immense virtue, for this reason, Mama withholds the reveals until the very last detail is molded into the piece, so that I don't try to mimic her art, but to stay original with my own ideas and creations. She teaches with books that were passed onto him from his old man who taught him every piece of knowledge that he chooses to now bestow on me. As I get settled down on my stool, gathering up the paints, and dumping out old water to get fresh water, I get the familiar feeling of a sharp discomfort in my head as a memory plays in my mind. I am in the slide of an indoor playground, the yellow plastic tunnel of which it consists surrounds me over my head. Leaving this sanctuary, I walk on a styrofoam floor with different colored squares, counting them as I walk. I see my father standing near a swing set, his eyes sunken in, and red, his jaw grinding his teeth, making disturbing noises as if he were chewing on a rock. Going over by his legs and pointing to the swing set, commanding him to pick me up and sit me on the swing. He does as I want and starts pushing me, slowly at first, escalating the speed as he keeps going. Smiling and laughing I start yelling for him to push me faster and faster, watching my feet reach up onto the ceiling, waiting for momentum to gather even more. Suddenly. His body collapsed. A loud smack on the floor filled the room, echoing, causing the others in the space to look, with curious and frightened faces. I looked around and my father's face was contorted and strained. The swing slows and slows as his breathing does the same, and the world starts shaking, what happened to him? I hear myself speaking “Daddy?”, yelling “Daddy?”. I stop the swing with my feet and get off. Cautiously walking over to him, frightened by the grayness of his face, he had started choking, first quietly then loudly. Horrified, I watched him struggle to breathe. Someone pulled me out of my trance, the arms of someone carrying my body away, saying words they probably thought to be reassuring. Taking me somewhere else as people flood the scene, gathering all around him, leaving me not a single space to see his face. Ringing in my head is “What has happened to my father.” 

Mama returns asking if I'm ready to paint and all I can muster to do is give a small, unconvincing “yes”. Feeling in my head an incredible weight which causes me to sit down before I fall.

       After that horrific memory days pass like people leaving the door at a party, all I'm left to do is watch the days grow into weeks, then into months. I haven't had any other incidents for a while, which I am more than thankful for. Since that last one, my mental capacity has been growing weak and information slides through me, sneaking away to a place I'm unable to reach. My headaches have worsened, causing me to skip many of my school lessons with Badar Jahaan, they cause me to spiral away, it's almost like someone put me on a boat and pushed me away to a dark forest at night where everything is incomprehensible. It's frustrating to have such a fragile brain, to have a mind that cannot function, except in the function of providing ongoing pain. Mama has been working at a library near our house, it pays a minimum wage, but she reminds Badar Jahaan that it is better than nothing. The sun is now setting and she leaves to work the night shift, Badar Jahaan is in the living room, watching her old Pakistani dramas. She is in charge of taking care of my random fits and headaches while Mama is away, which she does dutifully.

       I lie in bed waiting for sleep to carry me away. I get drowsy when suddenly I see a depiction of a moment I’ve never experienced before. I see my Mama and Daddy in the kitchen sitting on the pillows, a vase with a wilting rose sits upon the table, and the lights are on, as blue hour sweeps through the house with its loneliness. It's hard to catch a clear glimpse of their faces but I can tell that they both look distraught. Mama looks devastated as if she is in a state of grief. They both look young and fresh-faced, mama without the scar on her face. Almost suddenly Mama raises her voice, something that rarely occurs, and I hear her say “Well you brought this upon yourself, years after years I have dealt with your problems, putting myself after you, focusing on treatment and plans to help you get better for the sake of Sana. All of that just for you to do this to me”. My father shakes his head, looking down at the designs of our family on the porcelain, he says almost mumbling, his eyes downcast, "I'm sorry, I’m sorry”, he says looking depressed, but with insincerity, he did not seem to understand the impact of his actions. The images of this memory get blurry and events are distorted as another scene appears which is almost a polar opposite of the one just before. What I’m witnessing is astonishing and fills me with panic. Broken glass is spread out upon the floor, a wooden chair I have never seen before is broken and my father and my mother both are different, like a devil is running through their veins, fueling their anger. They aren't the same as before. Mama speaks saying “You used all my money, all my savings, for your own pleasure, to satisfy your corrupted addiction? Do you understand the height of how extreme your actions are?”. She is now crying, but to my disbelief, my father just looks mad. He isn't the person who smiles in the photos that are hung up in the passageway in our house connecting to the living room. He seems possessed, something taking effect in him. In a flash, he throws the vase with the wilted rose, seemingly wanting to throw it at the wall in frustration. It hits the wall right behind my mother, shards of glass piercing her skin, causing a cut along under her right eye to her jawline. I feel the most painful sensation in my head. I see now that the whole bottom of the vase has fallen on top of my head, the head of only a four-year-old. My mom screamed not from the pain of her injuries, as blood covered her face and neck, but at the sight of my blood spilling from an open wound on my head. She grabs my fallen body, speaking to my father who is staring,—shell shocked— as tears leave his eyes. She tells him to leave forever and never to come back.