Romans could still remember the
first day he had seen a lawman.
His father was working in the
fields, his mother in the house. The sun shined a deep ripe red overhead. Approaching
home it was difficult for a stranger’s presence to go unnoticed. Mother always
saw them first. Before a newcomer could round the last set of trees and
announce their presence, before making the walk up to the house, she was in the
kitchen rendering sweet offerings.
For a young Romans this style of
contrivance had made little sense. So much work to please some stranger, so
much work that Romans knew he would have to clean up after. Longer than it took him to understand women, and longer than it took him to
realize he was wrong on that account, he
one day realized the importance of his mother’s way of saying ‘hello, and
welcome to our home.’ Father could render another human at ease with a sturdy
handshake and firm eye contact, but mother used sweets. Travelers never
expected hospitality the way mother expected to give it, and so they were
always happy to have made their journey. Whether they came from near or far
with their burdens, they always left with strong souls prepared for the next
passage. This lawman was no different to
mother’s than any other traveler.
She looked out from her celery
green eyes set into a field of red speckles. Wheatgrass hair tied back, framing her honey
warm face, she was soon at work, tossing flour against the counter, and
painting her pan with sugars and butters. It was a ritual, which was another
important part of the process Romans refused to appreciate as a boy. Instead he would let his eyes rest on the
counter top like almonds, fingers curved over the edge lifting his wafer youth
up inch by inch until he could tilt his nose back and let the smell fall into
him.
Mother could see a mirror of her
green eyes staring up from the counter edge, buried under floppy patches of her
husband’s rusty hair, small fingers spider-walking
across the counter for the nearest morsel. Scoldings were also a ritual she had perfected.
But not today. The exact moment Romans expected to feel a spoon tap his
knuckles, or hear his name in the thunderous way only mother could say it,
nothing happened. He was confused and could feel his stomach make an unpleasant
tight feeling as he cheeks grew warm, and the heartbeat of a guilty boy
quickened. His gaze reaching hungrily across the counter, he watched both
mother and her spoon as he retrieved his hand, chocolate prize held firm
within. She only smiled, leaned over and kissed his hair. Encouraging
her rascal could be dangerous, but today there were other concerns occupying
her mind. There was a lawman coming to her door and all she wanted to do was
slow time.
The power of the kitchen ritual was
a power of meditation, a power of prayer. For mother she always came out of the
kitchen with the same strength in her soul her cookies gave to passing
strangers. Pain vanished and love grew behind those doors, all of which was
needed to face a lawman. Lawmen were always a storm crow , bearers of burdens,
who left their quarters darker colder and sadder.
The strange man was approaching the
front door, when mother brought her labors out of the kitchen, ready to greet
him and his news with the same warmth her ritual demanded. Father had come in
by now and greeted the man at the door, inviting him in. The lawman was young
Romans noticed. Still too young to see the passage of time, all men in the eyes
of this young boy were just Men. This man however made Romans’ father look old,
tired, weaker. Perhaps Romans had always noticed the streaks of gray hair, and
the leathery skin of his father, but
time never felt so scary until the lawman walked in with his bold youth and
even dark black hair. To Romans the lawman looked clean for a traveler, a long
coat, a wide-brimmed hat, tall and narrow,
where dirt could be seen tossed across
the salt-stained clothes of his much broader father. The man in his
black hair and dark clothes, unbridled himself one of many satchels, unbundling
stacks of paper and square parcels for father and mother to inspect. Their
faces looked cold.
The conversations that followed
were too fast for Romans, too many words. Not enough time. They grew louder at
points, and calmed at others, like swells of rain in the sky. No one seemed to
be eating the cookies, and even Romans had felt guilty to try and reach for one
while mother and father looked so serious. They talked for a long time about
the house, about Romans, about the sky. The lawman was unchanged and could only
unroll new parcels as explanations for every question they laid before him.
Long after mother’s cookies were cold
and the sun had set, the traveler packed his papers together, gave a formal
bow, offered an apology and left.
Before sunrise they had left their
home and were soon sharing the lawman’s road as travelers. Many things stayed
behind, father’s tools, mother’s pans still on the counter. The last thing she
managed to save was the parcel of cookies which she hid in her son’s bag to
keep him happy. She wanted to spoil him just enough to keep him young
especially on days like these. The ritual was all she needed to pack up the
most important things she had and keep them safe.
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