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THE MIRACLE
By Ben Crisp and
Rosalinda Flores
There was no place to
go, but here.
I was raging as always,
to imperfections. As such, at least, be perfect in front of this holy
woman.
Something stirred into
my memory, while I uttered chants I couldn’t even understand. So, this holy woman people called their
mother, and the Catholics believed to be the mother of Christ, had always stunned
me. No, she did not stun me like ghosts
scared, but her benevolence scared my sins and inspired me to hope. At least, in this way, I could re-organize my
undecided life.
At least, I’d be prim
in front of her, confident in front of her; complete. Apart from my whoring affairs to get money, I
wished some guy would come back for me, as my yellow dress meant waiting.
In a few weeks, my
boyfriend, a married man, would decide whether to marry me and annul their
marriage, or leave me for his wife. Of
all the men in my life, I just got into material quests so I could sustain my
falling business, but this married man was different because he thrilled my
every need, other than desire.
We’ve been on and off
this love affair for two years now, and I could see how he craved for my being,
because of his maid wife. “My wife compared to your diplomas is only good for a
housekeeper,” he told me.
And so, I summoned
him. “You must choose between me and
your wife.” In a few weeks, I hoped, he’d be back to cuddle me and present
me a diamond engagement ring.
A yellow dress would be
good to wear all the time! I’d go for
this good luck hype.
“Oh, would you always come
back for me, Madonna?”
In my thoughts I chanted,
“My boy friend would come back for me; heaven might let the maid wife curse me,
but what can I do? I have to steal
something to love me, or else I won’t stop whoring. Who would come back for me? Maybe, a thousand other men, to prance on my
neck and mark it ‘Hey, I’ve got your ass, too.” Will I be punished for ruining a sacred
matrimony or stealing a father?
In this place, was
something more real and tender. “Love me
tender, love me sweet… Oh, my love
complete,” I hummed. After my love
affairs, here was the only concrete and beautiful thing.
Across the benches, of
this, which I called a sanctuary, were a few others who breathed solace like
me. Perhaps. One could be on a fitness program, another read
a newspaper, and still another guy, sipped his brew. This guy, sipping his brew, could be thinking
nuts like me. Or could he be thanking
the magnificence of another day, while he looked up the sky, bowed low for his
cup, and darted again, in front this Madonna?
Or would he look at me,
too? His gaze was flaming hot. For what thoughts, he could have sensed my urgent pleading to this holy statue,
sublime in simplicity and honesty.
“Well, we’re flesh and bones, but if for moments, we could be holy,” an
old priest said that during the mass I had attended when I was younger, so once
in a lifetime I had been serious in the temples; so once pure, I was, before I
came into this labyrinth. Would my
pleadings echo around?
I caught him looking
into nothingness, unconscious maybe, when he glanced into my space and my
confused efforts. That time, when he
raised his cup, swallowed and sipped again, I thought he was a handsome bum.
April 23, 2012
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