To Wendy Lady

To Wendy Lady,

 My name is Ramon. I'm Tito's son. I'm writing this letter to you because I'm a gentleman, and dad always told me, "always say thank you when someone gives you something good." Like a watermelon, you know or, or a kiss. Thank you. 

  Ever since dad died, the responsibility of taking care of Ma fell to me. I'm only 23- not much of a man yet, but rules are rules, and mothers are the responsibilities of their children. 

My sister Casandra's old enough to take care of herself. She's got her own family to take care of, and since I'm the man of the house, I'll take it upon myself to help out.

A few responsibilities are easy. The regular ones, you know, get a job, get the groceries, pay the phone bill, pick up Ma from work in the evening, and ensure all the windows and doors are locked up before bed. 

The tricky bit is cleaning up Ma's thoughts. 

  Every night, my dad used to go into our thoughts to tidy up our things. He said a Wendy lady taught him how. 

"She said it's best to tidy up your children's thoughts when they sleep. Some children need their memories tucked away in a drawer before morning, or they'll walk around with dust all over their lives." 

He used to take all my nightmares and my sister's too, and lock them up in a closet. Sometimes, he let them out. Placed by the bed. He said monsters are good for you every once in a while.

 Minds are crazy, bothersome things. Some minds have dragons in them or a very long fall. I was hoping since Ma made the best chocolate chip cookies in Brooklyn, her mind would be full of sweetness. 

Her mind was a house on a hill, where the grass grew wildflowers, and the grass wobbled with the wind. The trees would yawn and be as tall as ten feet; trees that danced, that sang, and one tree was tirelessly pulling its roots out of the earth. The grass was the color Yellow, Green, and red. Birds with elephants trunks for beaks or mouths said, "hello, I want to be a square." A snake slithers through the tall grass. I could see lions with flamingo legs sneaking up on a group of elephants crying over a dead calf. I saw kids playing endlessly while their parents ran around with broomsticks kicking and brushing the alligators away.

  The house at the center of it all was a tall six-story manner, where the windows would blink and sometimes block the sun with the roof to avoid too much humidity in one space. 

The house had a forehead and eyelashes, and a neck. The front door was a big gaping mouth that smiled as you walked inside and asked you to take off your shoes. The stairs were made of rubber, and fish swam inside the walls that were transparent and full of water. Every wall in the house had a sea inside it. Clownfish swam beside jellyfish, beside catfish, beside sharks. Some parts of the house were so full of sunlight that the humidity was so high one could float in the thick air. The lamps, the kitchen lights, and the bathroom ceiling fan would only ignite if you asked politely.

Every so often, the house would call out to you, Ouch! Move! Not There! Could you please move the couch to the other side of the room! The oven is ready!

The house was a mess. Walls were broken, leaking fish and water everywhere. Doors were pulled off their hinges, and pictures were pulled off the walls. Tables were upside down, chairs were hanging halfway out the window. It was as if someone had dropped a hurricane inside the house. Fish were flapping like wings on the wet floor, and the house began to cry. 

Ashley is my mother. She was born in Brooklyn. Tough chick too. She grew up with her mother. No one knows a damn thing about her father. She was raised by a Dominican lady who believed in ghosts. She made Ashley carry a piece of dead skin in her bag so nothing bad could happen to her on her walk home. Our grandma was a crazy lady. She made us watch her behead a chicken so we wouldn't stay children for too long.  

My mother grew up tossing salt over her shoulder whenever she was jinked. Not for a million dollars could anyone get my mother to look into broken glass. 

 When dad died, she forbade us from calling his name in the house, afraid he might stay back to attend to us. I don't believe much in the hocus focus, never did, but I don't say his name in the house for respect for my mother (and also because you never know).

  My sister Casandra still can't sleep with her legs off the bed. She believes that's the only way something can get you. 

 My father was hit by a stray bullet in the back of the head. Ma thought if only he had a piece of dead skin in his pocket, he would have been ok. She cut off a part of her flesh and buried it with him so he would be safe on the other side.  

  Growing up in Brooklyn, you had to be tough. Otherwise, you'd get eaten up by the concrete. All my life, I ain't take no shit from anybody. I ain't never cry, either. Not even when Hakeem and Jaden beat me up and stole my bike in Prospect park. I didn't shed a single tear. But the day Dad took a bullet to the head, I sobbed like a sobbing machine. Someone put a quarter in me and tuned me all the way up. I cried from Sunday night to Wednesday morning. My body trembling so much from the sadness I thought my limbs would detach from my body. My house was a concerto an arpeggios of cries. 

I suspect Ma took the loss the worst. She was the only one who hadn't cried. 

  Dad said he fell in love with Ma the moment he saw her.

"As soon as I saw that beautiful girl jump out the cab screaming at that Jamaican cab driver! 

Don't chu ever hope I see you again! The cab driver peeled off like a bank robber. I knew your mother was the one right away. 

I walked right over to her, cut my heart out, and gave it to her. I said, here! Sweet thing! Sweet thing! I'm all yours. 

Life was all silly and stupid, but it wasn't long before I found myself wishing it was my destiny to be with her forever. 

Three years later, you showed up."

My sista said dad was crazy for loving too much. 

Dad said Casandra came and took his heart right out Ma's hands. She was the one he really loved. 

That was always the only reason Casandra said my dad was crazy to love.  

Ma loves telling that story.  

 I thought I'd find dad all over the house of my ma's thoughts. I thought maybe dad left something here for me to remember him. Something that was just for me. There was a note. 

Don't go into the basement. That was all it said. Then whatever thoughts were left over from my father were locked up in the attic. The one place in the house I couldn't get to. 

 I went about tidying up. I picked up all the fish and grabbed a pair of rubber gloves to tend the jellyfish. I put them back inside the walls. I used double-sided tape to seal any holes left in the leaking walls. I nailed doors back together. I picked up all the broken glass. I sang a sweet melody to the house so it may stop from crying. 

I found all of my Ma's kisses lying on the kitchen floor. I picked them up, washed them with soup, put them in Tupperware, and placed them in the fridge. I found her first love tucked away in a box in the closet. I found the day she met my dad lying under covers on the couch. I dusted the thoughts and put them back where I found them while my mind wandered about the basement. 

I found a time Ma pissed herself in an office building elevator. She ran out of the elevator like the building was on fire. She jumped into her car and drove home at high speed in a mixture of laughter and shame. She tucked that thought behind the TV. 

When I couldn't bare it any longer, I went into the basement. It was dark. No sunlight. 

Down there, a strange man without eyelashes or a left ear was standing in the middle of what seemed like an aisle at a grocery store. He had a round face with small thin lips, smaller evening than his narrow Chinese eyes. 

Cans of tomatoes lined up on shelves beside a box of Spghategit that cost $2.99. 

Rolls of different brands of Olive oil and teas. Across were bags of rice and flour, beans, ketchup, tomato sauce, Pesto sauce, and a Red pasty Pesto from a place called Bologna In Italy. The floors were checkered glossy blue, and white tiles cold against my feet. 

Above his head blinked a small fluorescent light that hissed as it went off and on. Off and on. Off and on. 

The air was thick and opalescent. 

His clothes were lying on the floor by his feet like a wet towel. His hairy belly stuck out of him like a big fat round nose. 

"Whatchu looking at," he says to me. His spaghetti was as limped as a dead flower.  

I murdered that man. I beat him to death with a can of tomatoes. And with my eyes hanging out of my face. I dragged his corpse outside by his limp tomatoes and fed him to the alligators. 

I finished tidying up. 

I continued picking up fish off the floor; I vacuumed the porch and hung pictures back on the wall. I dust behind drawers and clean the cupboards and shelves. I picked up any socks off the floor and put them in the hamper. I washed the bathroom. Then I went home. 

As I was leaving, crossing the field again, through the flamingo lions, over the snake. Past the dancing trees, I saw the dirty man from the basement escape the jaws of the alligators. His face was a bloodied palp as he crawled back towards the manner. 

The house welcomed him back. It dragged him back down into the basement, locking him inside. 

I guess we all have our ghosts, huh. 

Anyways, Ma seems happier now that I put all those kisses back where they belonged. 

 I'll make sure to tidy up my children's thoughts. I don't want them to walk around with dust all over their lives. 

Thank you, 

Sincerely and always the sweetest you, 

Ramon