THE AMPHITHEATER

He comes here often, he gets hungry if he doesn’t. He was seven when his father first showed him the amphitheater. They walked into the ocean for what seemed like his first eternity. His teeth were jumping up and down, making the sound of a mad clock ticking to the beat of discomfort.

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Stop whining, the water will be gone soon and you will find another thing to complain about

He had seen the ocean leave the plains before so he nodded and loosened the grip he had around his shoulders, the tight embrace flirting with the illusion of warmth. He would remember the cold and the shivers by a bruise on his arm he would discover a week later when undressing in front of a mirror.

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Six hours later, the ground was dry and the tides had fallen, fleeing from the force of the bright yellow. He turned around once, the sun was setting behind them, fleeing too. Everything escaped them but the ground they were stepping on and the ambition in Father’s eyes.

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Here it is

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He was seven but he was old enough to know there was nothing “here” deserving of Father’s fever. Father threw his hat to the ground and the little one jumped like his teeth had a few eternities back. Father knelt and the little one saw in Father’s eyes the echo of the fallen dusty hat, on his nose a dune so big that its summit grazed Father’s forehead, and in the space between those lawless eyebrows he saw the migratory birds that stole their catch last summer.

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You can’t see it because your bones are bad. I had good bones at your age, I could see it then and I can still see it now

Father laid on the cold sand and covered his ambition with his hat. Him, on the other hand, he had forgotten his hat and had nothing to cover his eyes with, the eyes which now bore shame’s dew. He had bad bones, no way around it. “Here” was only there for those with good bones. Afraid of reminding Father of his osseous shortcomings, he kept silent and laid on the dust as well.

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They both waited although Father knew what he was waiting for. Later on, Father would remember that eternity to be much shorter than he would, the way those who know what they’re waiting for do.

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Two or three shooting stars flew by and each time he would turn over to the body lying beside him, to find Father’s ambition still hiding under treated leather. Light above settled and the shooting stars grew bigger, brighter, turning green, orange and purple. His mother was there and a single shooting star grew up to be an elephant and she spent the rest of her life running behind a pink grinding stone, scattering memories of wheat all over the galaxy.

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He was startled by Father’s fingers pressing on his chest. His toes were wet and the air was salty. The ocean had returned and on the sand the shadow of a million small creatures would run away from his feet, run towards his stomach, alongside his arms. He jumped up and a single cry was heard by the desert that night.

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It was dark, but it was clear there was no more ambition in Father’s eyes but velvet blue pride.

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Well, what are you waiting for? I’m sure even you can see it now

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Father grabbed him by his arm and ran towards the dunes. Father’s feet would sink into the dune with each step he took, running was nearly impossible but that didn’t stop Father from trying. He was trying to move as fast as he could as well but the hand that was pulling him toward the summit was eager and Father never turned around to discover his child buried deep in the dune. Father kept pulling, intrigued by the sudden heaviness of the load he was dragging over the supple mountain. Eventually, Father let go of the weight and disappeared into the glowing crown of dust. He sunk further into the dune and he let himself go. He would never be able to catch up with Father, he had bad bones and the dune swallowed him freely. He was close to reaching the bottom when he thought like a fish and swam to the top. As he pushed the sand to the sides with his hands and kicked with his feet, he could hear Father’s heavy steps over his head, compressing the sand he swam in and rendering each breath more shallow than the one before. He made it all the way up, with lungs resembling shriveled fruit, took a short violent breath and found Father sitting there, staring at the place that held the million shadows and humming along to the jarring symphony of a thousand black leg brushing against the sand and climbing over the short bushes.

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Father turned to him and then toward the dark valley again. Father seemed to be comparing sizes, the greatness of a valley of young darkness, and the greatness of his son, the one with the bad bones. Father smiled. They sat together and watched the black animate cloth move from side to side, crashing against the walls of the dunes. Each time the mass of creatures would hit a wall, a new one would grow out of the fallen bricks of sand and little by little the creatures found themselves surrounded by a circular wall of sand. They grew desperate, they would hit the walls with more strength and the walls of ancient dust would grow taller and taller.

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He was concerned. He looked towards Father to see if he too was crying, if he too wanted to slide down and set them free. The wet trail on Father’s cheek told the story of a crying man but the whiteness of his teeth sweetened the drop that vanished into the sand. The walls met the night sky and the creatures resigned to enclosement.

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Father stood up, patted his pockets, took out a long red string and at the end of the string was a silver hook held in place by a sailor knot. Father let go of the silver hook and they slowly descended towards the walls, the red string trailing behind like a curious snake. They got to the wall and Father pulled the red string towards him, wrapping it around his finger until it turned blue.

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You first

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Father had asked him to do impossible things before but never had he had such a ridiculous request. He turned to Father raising his eyebrows, he looked up at the faint edge of the wall glowing under the moon, and turned to Father once more with a half-smile, hoping he was joking, but Father was not a joking man. He kicked the sand that bordered the wall as a petty protest and mediocre attempt to understand the terrain. He laughed at how easily sand allowed herself to be pushed around. He could already hear his bad bones breaking as he climbed a sand wall and fell by natural decree.

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Come on, it is strong! It was made out of fear

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He moved closer and knocked on the walls trying to find a weak spot, he found none. He was halfway up when he made the poor decision of looking down. Father’s hat was scary from above, it had the shape of an turtle crushed by a fire truck. He was pulling his last leg over the wall when Father’s silver hook was caught in his skin, wounding him and making him almost lose his balance. Father got there in half the time it took him; it made it sense, good bones. The amphitheater was finally there, and it was overwhelmingly big. From up there, the creatures looked like a deep pond in the middle of Venus.

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Now we wait

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For what?

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For the ocean, the fall, and the race

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Everything but the wind was silent. And then, a noise came running down the dunes, and with it the water that carried the melody. It was dark, the moon was trying her best to keep the creatures company but the clouds were feeling too playful that night. The ocean could only be smelled and heard, there was no knowing where it was or its size.

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Tonight is a good night, he’s feeling shy — said Father as he leaned over the edge of the wall

Father looked over towards the noise of timid waves crashing against the walls. He himself couldn’t see anything from that high, but it seemed like Father always had a moon of his own, one that would guide him through darkness, a moon he didn’t share.

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Now you hold on to this and hold it tightly. Don’t underestimate their strength.

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Father handed him the red string and threw the silver hook into the deep pond in the middle of Venus. The red string quickly unraveled and flew like a red butterfly in a field. He felt the silver hook hitting the ground and he looked up to find his Father sitting in front of him, far away, on the other side of the tall amphitheater.

Father was a sort of statue, still and lifeless. Father had the coldness of a man carved out of stone, the loneliness of those alike but not quite right.

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What do I do? — He yelled, but Father kept his head down, his hat on his lap and his feet swaying over the edge, his legs toying with the thought of a jump.

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His hand was shaking and the single string was suddenly six trembling red strings. He could hear the silver hook colliding against the creatures, shaking the dark colony. He couldn’t tell if he was hearing a collision or an anthem of fear. And then, the first tug. Father was not wrong, they were strong. He almost fell forward, and what a tragedy that would’ve been for a child with bad bones like him.

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Pull!

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Father yelled from the other end and the stone statue took the hues of copper, and the warmth of closeness hit him like the embrace of a person you can’t fully remember but haven’t decided to forget yet.

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He pulled; he pulled towards the moon, towards the sun, towards his mom, and finally towards Father. The creature flew out of the dark pond into the air and let go at the sight of the horizon; at the thought of freedom. Father quickly threw a blue string at it, tangling the creature in a sapphire cotton cocoon and pulling it towards him. Father untangled the dark turmoil ladened in blue and immediately trapped the darkness into a small wooden box with a few flowers and two hummingbirds looking away from each other, carved on the sides.

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Unlike the ocean whose army’s feet could be heard from the distance, the fall came without a warning. He witnessed Father getting closer and closer to the ground, and he could feel himself dropping too. The ocean was eating at the sand foundation and the walls were willingly joining the foam of the waves.

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Hurry up! They get very angry when you look at them in the eye!

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Father pointed at his red string and the silver hook that was stuck in the sand wall. He pulled the string and threw the silver hook into the lake that was once a pond. For the next couple of southern winds, more creatures were pulled out of Venus, let go at the sight of freedom, and ended up in a delicate box with the deep noise of a congregation of dusk seeping through the poorly joined corners. It was an awful noise, but it seemed to be guiding the fall of the dust structure with the tender quality of a choir.

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And now, even though they were getting closer and closer to the shrinking dark, the pond was losing its black currents to a wooden box and it went from lake to pond and pond to pool and pool to puddle.

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The walls were defeated by the ocean and his feet touched the soaked sand. There was but one lone shadow creature floating on the water, He turned both ways searching for guidance but Father was gone. There was once more silence, not even the wind was able to sway the bushes or gather the dust. The creature was still, maybe dead, so he decided to turn around and look for Father; after all, he was the only one who knew the way back home.

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He walked towards the only dune left after the blue insurgence. He was climbing to the top to look for Father from the heights when a strong fire was ignited on his back. He ran around in circles, desperately hitting his back to scare away the heat that was eating at his lungs. A sequence of thunder rattled inside his chest and a thousand lightnings gathered at his fingertips. Deep in that visceral struggle he was violently pushed to the ground by a familiar weight. He laid down on the cold sand who cradled his ache like water to a thirsty dog, and laying there with his eyes closed he recognized Father’s cry in the concert of cries that was taking place behind him under a hesitant sun.

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He woke up in Father’s arms, the bushes were twisted and Father’s hat was dripping dark ink all over the pale ground leaving behind a trail of sore memories and echoing howls.

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They are never dead, never give them your back — Father whispered, his plea silenced by the prologue of a young wind.

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You are lucky you have bad bones. Evil seeps through bad bones like water, it sticks to good bones like grease

The sun was rising. Father said his bones were bad, but they were gentle, and if evil seeps through gentle like water and sticks to tough like grease, then he was happy to be the boy with the bad bones; to be the one falling and hurting but to never be hardened like old grease lost in a bucket of good bones.

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His head was feeling heavy and his ribs sprouted sharp edges, but he managed to draw a half-smile through the pain. He felt Father’s glistening fingers soaking through his shirt and he drew another half-smile for everything light, for everything through which water finds its way.