Books Burn Badly

Your Name

ALL OLINDA REMEMBERED was my name. That’s a lot if you’re the one being named. Of all the names, the thousands of words, the only sound that comes out of her mouth (because she doesn’t complain, sob, groan or moan) is your name. What’s that? And she says your name. Like a stone figure suddenly calling out for you. She rounds her lips. Draws your name. That’s a lot of weight. Like carrying someone on top of you. Not inside or around, but on top of you. Only your name. She could have said anything. She could have howled. I’d have understood that, a howl rising from deep inside her. But no. She says your, my name. All she gives out is my name. A wee-wee, a slight trickle. Droppings, chestnuts, quails’ eggs, balls that get harder and smaller, like the pips of watermelons or morello cherries. Pips of life. You feel like planting them to see if they’ll grow like seeds. Putting them in damp cotton. They might just sprout. Lentils. Finally a few jewels, precious, shiny droppings like ladybirds. Spit, no. All that comes out of her mouth is my name. She eats a beakful, the amount a bird gives to its chick. That’s enough. She shrank. Withered. I could lift her in my arms like a baby. ‘There we go! When you’re better, we’ll count matches. We’ll fill box after box with matches.’ I found her lying on the carpet, bent double, just another geometrical drawing. ‘Leave me here,’ said Olinda on the carpet. ‘I’m popping out for a while.’ This was the last thing she said with any of the old, coherent meaning. After that, only my name. O. She’d say O and I’d use the O to give her something. She keeps going on a beakful. The line of her body. Wee-wee. Jewels. Seed. My name. A circle on her lips, a sigh. So it’s true she, what she was at least, left that day on the carpet.