The Spear Cuts Through Water

by Simon Jimenez

the rush of whispers filling the theater, for some tales are too large to be told by one voice alone.

“The old men would have you believe it shook out one way. That the road was but pain and glory. Sometimes, perhaps, life whittles itself down to these essences. Sometimes there is nothing we can do but sit in it.” She took a long drag and blew gray smoke up into the ceiling, where it lived like an opaque and swirling cloud of shape and texture. “But listen well when I tell you that your father, and your granjo, are wrong.” What were they wrong about? you asked. She shrugged. “This is a love story to its blade-dented bone.”

It would become a thing he could return to in his mind when he pleased, elaborating on the details, giving life to the still image, and in this way it would become his, for this was the fate of all fantasy.

Fathers leave in all sorts of ways. Some of them leave in the dark. Some leave only in their heads, while their bodies remain, staring at the world around them forever distantly. Others fade out over time, like an old photo rubbed raw. Many, gone in an instant.

But none of them said anything, just as you had said nothing when your own father had left, for there are moments in this life that speak clearly for themselves.

But the truth of the matter was they fought because Jun was grieving and Keema was terrified and Jun was exhilarated and Keema was joyful and Jun was exhausted and Keema was repulsed. They fought because it was the easiest language they spoke.

“I have lived a long time,” she said. “And the longer I live, the more it surprises me, and saddens me, how wise the young must become to live in this world.”

You can fault the dancer, but more often than not, it is the dance itself that has to change.

But you know as well as any guilty party that no one thought stands alone. That there is a city within you, populated by both high- and lowborn beliefs, interjections, prayers, rantings.

We are called to our parents like sirens.

We were not ourselves anymore but each other, speaking through our bodies to a wounded and grieving land. And what we said was this: The body holds the body. The arms hold the spear. And the spear cuts through water.

“They have already seen my life. They have seen my most shameful moments.” The pained look in his eyes quickly faded as he gazed into Keema’s. “Why would I deny them one of my most beautiful?”