Matthew Bala

Mother Earth

“We found you nearly dead out there.”

“Should’ve left me.”

“All life means something to another.”

“I’m telling you mine don’t mean nothing to no one.”

“It means something to me. You eat, you drink—it means something to you.”

I clatter down the clay pot through fingers flecked with strained vegetables onto an earthy mound. Wet mud pads into the shape of my bottom, the ground seeping its mushy product in denim pockets and stubborn folds; feet heel up wedges of dirt and gravel, peeling up into the sky and producing the flesh of the Earth.

“Catori made that.”

“It’s good.”

“She knows.”

A flat chuckle zips out both our mouths; the wind blows through pinhole lips and into a rash palette– a sharp “tsk” clucks from my tongue.

“You’re sick.”

“How could you tell?”

It hurts to breathe—my lungs feel like they’re full of oil. It’s been a lot harder to do anything lately, like my energy’s just been cut in half. I tried lumbering out the camp last night, thinking I could hitch a wagon-ride back to Daggett, but I could only keep falling on my ass.

“Kids are callin’ you ‘chindi’.”

“Restless spirit?”

“No—you’re a bad spirit, all bad. Lingering in places where you don’t belong.”

“Ain’t that the truth?”

“The truth, you stubborn soul, is that you need rest.”

“I’m fine.” I say, as I muscle myself up from my wrists and walk off. Four steps in, and my knee buckles, throwing me back to the ground. Caught in a kneeling position, I focus on the sky, its wisping clouds and veiled sun.

“You’re tearing yourself apart.”

“I don’t care. Can’t care.”

Now on one knee, I throw my hand into my thigh—maybe a shot of energy through my arm can get me up. My upper back lets out a huge groan and I hunch over, face plants flat down. 

“Goddamn it”, I say, with my gums touching cold mud.

“Here”, Tala squishes up to me and catches me under my arms and fastens me up. His well-sculpted face is so full of health.

“You’re dying. Please—”

“Don’t tell me that. Don’t come here and tell I can’t make myself strong enough to do things alone.”

“I’m not saying that, but I just can’t stand to see you die trying.”

“Get off me!”

I push him at arm’s length, and my energy patters out; I can’t see straight. I can’t see anymore, and the fear that I had been locking up all this time leaks through—my body is refusing me, and I can’t understand why. My legs move on their own, away from Tala, away from a community that can only smother me until I have no more breath left in me.

“Nayali! Hey!”

He rushes along my trailing steps—he clutches my shoulder, and I tug it away.

“If you’re just trying to keep me around so you can bed me, I hope that your mother can see the man—”

“What?”

“Being your wife is not how I want to spend my final—”

“I don’t want to make you my wife, you. . .”

His face sinks into his handsome clay, his eyes swallowing the sparkle he had before I made that remark. Backing away, he says the words I had hoped to never hear.

“I’m done.”

I gaze blankly at his retreating figure, shrinking away from my foggy vision. My voice catches on itself, and I could only curse this body for tainting my mind and soul.