aunty left the fish on the raw wood table
untouched and unprepared, which is
a bad sign because it means she has declared war.
this, of course, occurs on Friday, after Maghreb,
although it is important to claim that she was not
waging any religious war, only a gendered one.
aunty was a man’s man with big broad shoulders
and a no-nonsense frown. she had
dim eyes, the kind that you know once carried some
kind of emotion. she got married young, was widowed
and then remarried still young. by twenty-three,
aunty learned how to press the kill switch on disrespect
and everyone feared her for it, including uncle.
once, a lifetime ago, uncle used to be just as scary.
that’s what the grandmothers whisper when aunty takes a quick
break in the kitchen and uncle is outside smoking the last of his
cigarettes in the refuge of twilight. “aunty broke him down
before he could speak too much,” they whispered, wide-eyed if not
bitter. there is a rumour that uncle was a heartbreaker, although i don’t know
if I can believe it, but aunty swept him off his feet.
then he fell straight, and they were in love.
“and, of course, there was no other choice but to marry, anyways.”
i’ve never seen it, but i guess if there is such thing as love between them
it is in the dimming light in uncle’s eyes when aunty snaps a command, and
if there is love, it is in the spark of fury simmering between both bodies
like boiling fishsoup water in the pot above the fire. or, at the
dinner table, exposed and untouched, the love sits
on a white porcelain tray, smelling distinctly of death and other things.
“where’s dinner?” uncle demands, outraged, and aunty
hands him a fork and knife. “where’s my apology?”
she retaliates. the fish watches open-eyed and limp.
the battle is swift.
aunty reaches for a bowl of murky lakewater
to soften the uncooked blow, while uncle leaps forward with
a quick, quiet lunge.
as aunty dies, her lips flap
open and closed open and closed.
i have never seen death so up-close and personal. hot breath
exhaled in puffs against my face, i never thought death
would be so gross. aunty was a strong woman before she
keeled at the altar of the mighty man cloaked in shadow.
if she were smarter, she would have seen it coming,
the swipe of metal against her neck. the years of distrust
somehow got to her; i think she was just testing him to
see how much reign he’d give her; i think she was just
beginning to love him for real.
i wish it was cleaner, her death. uncle didn’t flinch,
didn’t bat an eye as he grabbed the fork, and i didn’t
think to say a word, either.
Great storytelling. I'm so curious about aunty's origin story!
Damn. This is really good. I love it. Thanks for sharing.