Mother Nature's Virtues and Vices

Today the men brought us cold pasta and apples. I take it eagerly, and shovel it all down. In minutes, my container is polished clean. My dad is staring forlornly at his now-empty container, his sallow eyes unblinking. I don’t remember the last time I uttered a word to him; us both preferring to stick to the comforting knowledge of companionship rather than communication. It suits me fine. There isn’t much reason to talk anyway—our routines stay the same everyday, a perpetual cycle with no interjections or breaks.

Again, suits me fine.

I lean back until my back is resting on the cold concrete, no blanket to separate me from the earth. The thought appeals to me. The thought of being connected to a mass so large, I almost feel like nothing. Insignificant. A flea on a horse scaled up by one million. I embrace the thought, sinking further into the ground, allowing the uneven textures in the concrete to press into my back. I imagine the print I will bear on my back as a souvenir of this moment; other Nature always leaves footprints, unable to conceal the clues of Her actions fully.

My dad takes my empty container and puts it into his. He limps out of our makeshift tent, clutching onto his leg. His accident had occured not a month ago, leaving us here, in this desolate place of old wrinkled faces and bloodshot, crazed eyes. The smell of weed is poignant here, sometimes forcing me to wrinkle my eyes and eyes to water.

Tonight is my dad’s turn to sleep with the thicker, woolen blanket and ragged pillow. We take wordless turns, passing it between us. We’re aware that living on the streets leaves no time or place for generosity or compassion. You take what you get and take what you need to survive. The rules of the street are quite simple, really.

Tonight I will sleep with the fleece blanket. Thin, but I take solace in the thought that I will snuggle up cozily tomorrow. I think this same thing every fleece night.

Light dwindles in the apertures of our tent, signaling for the next activity of our day.

My dad gets out first, going round and sitting at the rear-side, his back to the tent. I follow his lead. I gaze up at the sky streaked with pastel pinks and smooth oranges, all blending into one colorful mass. I marvel silently at the sheer magnificence of Mother Nature. She’s able to stun me every night with the same sky above me, only the colors switched here and there. I blink and the next thing I know, streaks of dark blue are creeping forward, scaring away the pastels and taking their places.

Our cue to go back inside.

Once back in, my dad wraps himself up like a burrito in the blanket and tips his head in my direction. I translate the nod: Goodnight. I nod back, then pull the fleece over my shoulders, allowing my right shoulder to get patterned tonight.

Sleep envelopes me as soon as my head touches the concrete, and I’m glad when I sink into a dreamless sleep, savoring the peace and lack of worry.

***

I wake with a start, expecting there to be light streaming into the tent. No light comes; darkness still prevails. I have never woken up in the middle of the night before.

Just as I hug my knees together and attempt to go back to sleep, something catches my attention. I feel something wet beneath me. I look around for my water bottle and spot it on the far side of the tent. No other bottles of liquid surround me. Baffled, I quietly stand up and look down.

I gasp when I see crimson—the deep, dangerous color of blood. I check for any cuts on my legs, but find none. A vague thought enters my mind. It’s foggy, but I vaguely remember my mother giving me a talk about this. That one day it will happen and I should be prepared. She said that she might not be here anymore, and had given me five fat, square parcels, not much bigger than my palm. She had called them pads. I wish I had kept them. She’d whispered about how they weren’t free, even though this thing was natural; a normality. She had seemed angry, although I couldn’t remember what for.

I feel more blood come and realise I must do something before I end up in a circle of the scarlet liquid. I shudder at the thought.

Hesitantly, I grab the one dollar my dad had found a week ago on the street. Our lucky charm. Pulling my shirt as far down as possible over my stained pants, I get out of the tent. I feel as though I am doing something illegal—this is not part of our routine. I panic for a moment, wondering what will become of our routine if I break it now. Will this nightly escapade become a part of it?

I don’t like the feeling and it’s not just the dampness now, I feel as though something alive is residing in my lower stomach—and is angry about who knows what. I place a hand on it, trying to soothe it, put it to sleep. It resists and fights back—I double over, a groan escaping my lips. Straightening up, I force myself to pull together and get to the closest convenience store.

I reach it, the bright lights making me blink a couple of times before I enter. I haven’t used my voice in a while. I practice before going inside, repeating ‘hello’ over and over. It comes out croaky the first couple times and I worry I’ve lost my voice, but it slowly returns to normal. I take a deep breath and step inside.

There’s a man behind the cash register. I walk over to him uncertainly, making sure to keep my balance.

“H-hi there. I was wondering if you sell any pad here?”

He looks me up and down disdainfully before replying. His eyes linger on the blood on my fingers and he wrinkles his nose, looking away. “Yes, at the back. But hurry, I don’t want any of my customers seeing you and getting scared away.”

I ignore his snide and nod, walking toward the back. I see a box of the same parcels my mother had shown me, and a wave of nostalgia hits me like a wave. I shake off the feeling, telling myself to concentrate. I scan the boxes, filled with the same product in different sizes and colors. After seeing them all, I still feel an unexplained connection to the ones my mother had shown me, so I pick them up and go back to the register. The prices aren’t labeled on the products so I ask him.

“Sorry, sir,” I say when I make him look up from his cell phone, “but do you know how much this is?” I hold up the box.

He smiles nastily, showing his crooked, yellow teeth. “Five dollars.”

I gulp. Now what will I do? A thought occurs to me. Maybe he’ll conform. “Are you able to allow me to take one out and use it? I only need one, sir.”

Snorting, he replies, “No can do miss. Not even for a pretty one like you.” He looks back down at his phone, adding, “Don’t take it personally.”

Determined, I go back to the aisle and pick out the most drab-looking box, holding only four pads. I march back to him and hold it out. “This one?”

“Four dollars. This isn’t some bargaining market, so I suggest that if you have the money, you pay up and leave, or else I kick you outta here.”

My heart is hammering against my chest now, embarrassment and shame mixed into one. I thank him, keep my head down, and walk out of the store. I think wildly about how I could substitute the pads as I get to our tent.

My dad is snoring peacefully and I think about asking him, before remembering my mother’s words about how men don’t understand, how you shouldn’t tell them. Besides, I haven’t talked to him in forever.

I glance around the tent. I look for any fabric that I’ll be able to rip off but one that holds some thickness. My eyes settle on my shirt. No other option. I rip a strip of the fabric off, and go under the fleece to try stop the blood. It doesn’t seem to slow, but feels better anyway. I sigh, and wonder how I’ll buy a new shirt after I keep ripping pieces off.

Will my dad say something about my shirt tomorrow? Will he comment on the blood staining my fingers? I doubt it.

I fall into another dreamless sleep, on my back this time.

- Zahra Daya

2/19/2021