Waiting for a Cure - or - My Xitsonga Lover
by 
lieslj
|
Posted: Thursday, February 2, 2006 Word Count: 236 Summary: My flash exercise using the word 'gathering'. Can't decide on a title! |
Waiting for a Cure
A woman waited in doorways, stood under arches, listened at windows for the magical abracadabra -- a combination she knew would arrive.
The doctor said it could come at any given time, so she listened to the September wind, waited for Jacaranda blossoms to fall and pop underfoot in November. She heard hadedahs shriek at dawn in December, but by February, there was still no sign, only sighs and post gathering unopened on the mantel and her nails chewed till they bled and throbbed.
The taxidriver with flared nostrils said it would come soon.
It would be a cryptic code: the right words whispered by a stranger wearing lilac eyeshadow perhaps: “light of lime, purge of pipe,” or a message flashing on an electronic hording over the highway: “inner circle infant, don’t drop the dog.”
How will I know if I’ve been called, she asked at confession? The priest said to shake out last year’s umbrella. She consulted a palm reader, a gambler, a hungry vagrant to whom she offered a tin of beans. She handed over her questions to those who would take them, gave them away for free.
The radio bumped onto the indigenous language station by accident. In that moment of not knowing who the Radio Xitsonga DJ was, she heard the answer in a leeched voice: answer your phone, please and dammit, or at least open your post.
A woman waited in doorways, stood under arches, listened at windows for the magical abracadabra -- a combination she knew would arrive.
The doctor said it could come at any given time, so she listened to the September wind, waited for Jacaranda blossoms to fall and pop underfoot in November. She heard hadedahs shriek at dawn in December, but by February, there was still no sign, only sighs and post gathering unopened on the mantel and her nails chewed till they bled and throbbed.
The taxidriver with flared nostrils said it would come soon.
It would be a cryptic code: the right words whispered by a stranger wearing lilac eyeshadow perhaps: “light of lime, purge of pipe,” or a message flashing on an electronic hording over the highway: “inner circle infant, don’t drop the dog.”
How will I know if I’ve been called, she asked at confession? The priest said to shake out last year’s umbrella. She consulted a palm reader, a gambler, a hungry vagrant to whom she offered a tin of beans. She handed over her questions to those who would take them, gave them away for free.
The radio bumped onto the indigenous language station by accident. In that moment of not knowing who the Radio Xitsonga DJ was, she heard the answer in a leeched voice: answer your phone, please and dammit, or at least open your post.