Miracles

The heel of her soft shoe lands on my groin once, twice. I am glad that she isn’t wearing high heels and thank the Lord above that I can shovel pain under the surface of my awareness and use it to fertilize my resolve. My body still reacts to the damage she causes and curls instinctively into a protective cocoon. She fiercely kicks me twice on my lower back before I hear her stumbling footsteps rush away, in the direction of her car.

“Help! Somebody! Please, help me!” she screams, but I know the people around us, if any, have no desire to help or call anyone that will. I can imagine them turning up the volume on their TVs to drown out her screams from disturbing the barren peace of their coffins.

I order my body to override instinct and force it to stand up. It complies groggily, and I stumble in the direction of her car. I know where she parked. I always know where they park since I wait in my truck and watch them arrive, full of hope for love. While they wait for a date with a person who doesn’t exist and never shows up, I break into their cars to loosen the battery leads and pour a drop of epoxy in the keyholes so they can’t unlock the car. Rarely do they make it that far, but I prefer to cover my bases.

I always feel a deep sadness when I see the heartbreak in their faces as they finally give up and walk in darkness back to their sad and empty lives.

A memory fills me as I shuffle to catch up to her. It’s always the same memory. A bean sprouting roots in moist cotton at school. I understood Mother then and why she loved plants so much and me so little. They are a miracle. To watch something so frail and weak break through the dark and claw its way out to the sun is a miracle. Something I never could do.

I can still smell the earthy scent of the cotton after three days of serving as soil. That first one is now a multitude of miracles near the orchard.

I grab her by the hair and slam her head against the side of her car. She is now malleable. She’s almost ready to bestow her life to a miracle. I hold her in a choke hold and wait for her to stop thrashing.

I was always tending Mother's plants and her trees. She had so many and all I wanted was to have some of my own. She never allowed me to place the seeds on the ground, only to water her miracles once they were safe in the ground. She gifted me a watering can with a cartoon pig and Piglet, her pet name for me, scrawled on the side.

She struggles one last time and paws at the ski mask on my face as I reach for her cell phone, her last hope, in her pocket. I pull my head back and her limp hand finally lands on her side. I know she’s ready.

Mother struggled so much when I did the same for her. She was my second miracle and I learned everything from her. I dug my first berth for her, and I lowered her down lovingly with two seeds in her mouth.

I drag this woman back to my truck, which I moved closer to her car. I made her a bed of bark dust and am eager to take her to the berth I prepared for her to nourish my latest miracle.

Remembering my disappointment when, day after day, nothing sprouted from Mother’s body. I realized that water was not reaching deep enough, so I dug out her berth, placed a length of hose into her mouth and buried her again. I left the other end of the hose above ground, so water could reach directly to the seeds and roots. I planted a ring of flowers around the ugly hose and placed a little sign that reads "Watering Hole. A place of miracles.”

I register the movement from my right side a second before a sharp pain shoots up my leg. I falter and stumble. I touch the painful area and come away with a bloody palm. She’s awake and she’s stabbing me with a knife she had hidden. I howl in agony after she stabs my right knee and lose my grip on her. She leans forward and thuds to the ground before crawling away from me.

Someone opens a window and shouts down at us. I panic. I am limping back to the truck, a few feet away now, when I feel a sharp pain between my shoulders. She stabs me and I manage to backhand her face before she can bring her arm back down for another blow. I see her crumple to the ground.

I crawl into the truck and turn the ignition. I don’t remember the drive back home. I have shards of memory about traffic lights and flashing stripes of white ahead disappearing into the dark in front of me. Before I know it, I am standing next to Mother’s farmhouse, looking towards my orchard of miracles sitting in darkness.

It’s my turn to become a miracle, blossoms in my mind and I smile. Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Mother.

I gather as much soil as I can near the lip of the berth and lower myself into it. It was destined for that girl, the berth I lovingly dug out after I convinced her I could love and be good to her. I take seeds, once destined to feed on her body, and place them in my mouth with great care. I gently place the hose in my mouth and begin to pull handfuls of dirt to cover me until it cascades.

As everything grows dark, one last thought sprouts. Who will water my miracle?