A Gift For A Gift

By: K.Valley

Thank you. That's usually what you say when you receive a gift. You say, “thank you.” That's what I should say.

Your book was sitting on my desk, out front of my laptop. It’s very...black. I prefer something brighter, vibrant. Red. Yellow.

Well...thank you for the money.

Have you ever heard of “colere?” It’s the Latin origin of the word culture. It means to nourish and tend the earth. And “culture, itself?” There’s not really a definitive definition. Think of it like spirals, big, small, tight, loose. Patterns, flowing along the spectrum.

Culture is the shared patterns we hold with each other. We could have more in common with some, and less with others. It could be different for every group you interact with. But you know what makes the promise of culture exciting? Colere. The idea that to build culture, to build the shared, you have to nurture it. Tend it.

Do you remember that time we set the couch on fire in the basement? I don’t remember how old we were. But there we were, the three of us, my two brothers and me, panicking, screaming, trying to put out the fire we started. We needed that hose to soak those flames before they caught the curtains. Nothing less than the threat of our dying, choking on smoke made me race out that basement door. The spiders always got me. Tangling in my hair and dropping down the side of my face, you know, close enough to my eyes to make me doubt it was a spider. Yet the terror in my spine told me truth. I dragged the streaming hose inside and we blasted the couch and chair.

We couldn’t even use pillows to hide the burned spots, they were so wet and big. And burned. Who started with the matches? Was it me? I always remembered it as being me. It wasn’t. It was baby brother, wasn’t it? He had a box of those wooden ones that hypnotize you with that sound. Skritch! Skritch! Then that slight pause where you wait, on the edge, just for a moment, will it catch, will it light? Then that sound when the head glows red a split second before the flame shows itself. It’s so satisfying. The flame was the reward for that moment of patience.

The basement was a mess, water everywhere, burn spots, no way to hide. Mom, she would be furious. She was furious.

We’d hauled on snowsuits, stuffing encyclopedias inside to protect from the spanking we knew we deserved, even though mom never spanked us. It could’ve been worse, and it was bad.

Mum was pissed. She found our hiding spot under the bed pretty quick. Poking at us with the broom handle. Poor woman to have us as kids. I think grandma came to live with us after that.

Did you get mum’s ashes? I mailed them.

I’ve been thinking a lot about her lately.

Just her life I mean. Raising 3 kids on her own. I wish we’d given her an easier time.

Imagine, a Black single mum answering the knock on her door. And there we are, naked. With the cop who’d brought us home. Three Black kids naked asses bouncing, walking the sidewalks, not giving a toss. Her heart must have hurt with the beats. And we three, standing there grinning. A four-year-old baby boy, and me and you at what, eight, seven?

I’m glad we washed mum’s body. Wiping her arms, her face, she was cold, but didn’t feel as dense as dad did. To be fair, he’d been dead longer. She was still soft. Passing the washcloth over her face, her arms, down her legs. I think tending to her body like that, it’s helped with not missing her so much.

I still feel the way her skin slid open when I passed the washcloth over it. The exposed flesh was white and wet. It’s the sliding that gets me. I didn’t know death could be delicate. The movies always show hard stiffness.

Why did you send this money? It’s useful, of course. It’s money.

The girls had some trouble. The divorce was tough on them. Lil was home almost two years. Food was her go-to. She gained weight. She lost the weight.

School knew the trouble was coming. We’d talked. For Ig, when she was up to going, or wanted a break from the gloominess of home, off to school she went. Hung out in a room on her own if she needed. Joined her friends if she was up to it. That’s why I chose the school.

They’re happier now - though they have shadows. I think the shadows will always be with them. Family might have helped, instead of being alone with only me. That’s the part right there. The part I can’t really get past, my brother. It’s the part where you walked away and left us to drown.

How’d you come up with the number, twenty grand? What was the calculation? I let my sister drown when she needed me most, $5,000. I abandoned my nieces when they needed family and support, $5,000 per girl. And an extra $5,000 just because. I know you and baby brother are all about the calculations, the numbers.

Here are mine.

Twenty thousand dollars, after five years, is 1,865 days. That’s $10/per day. Divide that by the three of us females and that’s $3.57/per person/per day. That’s quite the apology.

Thank you for having my ex-husband deliver your message.

And since my 2 brothers and my ex-husband seem so eager to make amends, you should know I no longer get out of bed in the home I own, for less than $500/day.

Looking at the cheque, I grabbed my phone and took a picture depositing $20,000 into my investment accounts. Because with a return of 48% that money wasn’t going to waste.

Grabbing my torch..an upgrade from the wooden matches, I twisted the blue nob, hearing the propane’s rushing hiss. Pressing down the starter an orange-tipped, blue flame shot up, burning the ripped-out pages. I let them fall into a glazed stone planter filled with earth, home to a dying aloe plant.

The black notebook, I put back on my desk. Pulling out the chair, I sat. Then I picked up my pen, opened the book’s cover and wrote five words in strong upright letters. I closed the cover.