Delilah was getting tired. She’d been holding court for 79 days, regaling all the youngsters who were devoted to her tales. Unlike the likes of Joyce Carol and Aaron Sortof, she gave it away for free. The “it” being her extensive yet disconnected knowledge of everything from hawks to cameras, Greek mythology to stock market wins, and medical hacks to horse wrangling v sailing knots.
“We do not talk — we bludgeon one another with facts and theories gleaned from cursory readings of newspapers, magazines and digests.”
Saul sat at her feet. She had nodded off. They were newfound relations. Him, the nephew of a half-sister she never knew. Her, the gradually fading bastard child of unknown parents who had lived on every fringe she could find.
She’d taken off, courageously, to travel after finishing her studies. Fallen in love with a brilliant but troubled junkie. Created a king, saved a woman living in a garbage dump and scrubbed blood off the floors of the first wave of AIDS patients. She was, if nothing else, relentlessly brave in her modest convictions. Being adopted infused her with a false sense of purpose: for years, she presumed she must be the new Jesus because only a child who did not know her parents could be trusted by God to do the right thing by humanity.
You see once we are broken into tribes and familial commitments, our sense of responsibility extends only to those with our family names. She’d been alone in the world for so long, the only connection that prevailed was what others found abstract. To her, it was life’s blood. She knew not where she belonged so, in effect, she was no one and everyone at the same time.
In the alley, the perfect blonde unloads her crossover vehicle full of practical supplies for another week of a global pandemic. Wondering why she’s been spared simply never occurs as I pass by with spurious deeds and formidable habits, knowing the likewise justifies no amount of suffering. Suffering unknown by precious blondes hoarding their fortunes in alleys they wouldn’t dare revisit at nightfall. The divide no longer brings yearning nor shame, just a remarkable resonance of nothing.
A canopy of delinquent vines fluttered by the open window. Sage burned on the antique desk in the corner. Her dreams were of her adopted mother.