Dreams of Fish

“I been havin’ a strange dream, for weeks, Nana.”

“Hmm…”

Nana’s slender, wrinkled hands are slow but efficient. One by one, she fishes the pods out of the calabash, presses the center to separate the shells and shakes the cream-colored pigeon peas into an old pot.

“Tell me about it,” she says, taking her sweet time with every word.

“I stand in the river, the water up to my knees and… it fresh on my skin. Then a blue fish, comin’ outtta nowhere, start circlin’ me. It swim fast between my legs, just once, and circle me again. And I wake up.”

Nana’s silent attention stays on the pigeon peas—at least, her eyes do.

“Every week the fish gettin’ bigger. Why you think it come back, Nana?”

Her gaze shifts from the calabash to me. Her head is wrapped in her favorite scarf—a white field, decorated with cream, golden and blue motifs. Some of her wooly white hair is poking out, forming a quaint little cloud on her neck.

“Me thought you was done messin’ wit’ dat boy… what he name? Alex?”

I could have sworn we were talking and shelling peas but Nana seems to be in the mood to throw punches. Is my dream revealing more than I am willing to share?

“Uh? Wh.. wha.. what you mean, Nana?” I pray she does not detect the tinge of guilt in my voice but who am I kidding? Her crow’s feet deepen and her cheekbones rise, as sparks light up her eyes.

“Every week, you say?” She bares her gums, now.

“Every week?” I repeat sheepishly.

“You done say you dream about da same fish every week.”

“Yes! Every Saturday.” Now, nervousness has me in its grasp. I know Caribbean elders like to toy with you a little bit before revealing their true thoughts but I do want to find out quickly where she is taking me.

“So… about dat boy?” she says, in a playful tone.

“Okay… Yes, I done decide to give Alex another chance.” I avoid her eyes, not knowing what I may find in them and I grab a pod so my hands can have something to do.

“Hmm…”

“I know you don’t like him but he not a bad person and he make me laugh.”

“Me know you believe that.” She pours more pea pods in front of me. “Now tings get different when responsibility come.”

To this, I can only reply with a blank stare. It might be too much mystery for me, at this point. I want to know how she knew and where she is getting at.

“Mama told you somethin’, Nana?”

“Baby, ya mama no need fi tell me nuttin’. Saturday is Yemaya’s day. You know who she?”

“Of course, Nana. The orisha, mother of all orisha.” I am getting more confused by the second.

“You know da fish her children?” She insists.

“Yes, Nana, I…” My silly coping smile drops. Clarity slaps me across the face although I am trying hard to dodge its stinging hand. Nana might just be right. I go silent and think.

“You countin’ the days, baby?” She laughs that good elderly Caribbean cackle that echoes so loud and paints the air with the colors of the rainbow. Although she is joking, she is right about that. I am indeed counting the days—I am counting the weeks.

She pushes her pile of empty pea shells to the side and gets up as slowly as her age requires. She takes her calabash to the kitchen and comes back with more fresh pigeon pea pods. She looks at me with a caress in her eyes.

She moves closer and takes my hand. “So… my dahlin’ child. What you want fi do? Is you go make me a great-grandmother?”