The house spoke in creaks. Creaks from the wind tossing the old home . Creaks from its family's footsteps , creaks from weight being shifted from one side of the house to the other.
It sat like an old man with an aging belly on tall spiralling columns decaying from age. Built separately at bottom of the house was a baliada shop .. free standing small 10 feet by 12 feet with an outdoor dinning area.
The house above watched the customers come in and creaked it's welcome daily under the sweltering Honduran sun.
It was an old home with cardboard & plywood on the windows from the makeshift repair of a single underpaid mother and her 6 children. The house did not complain.. just provided it's meager shelter to the utmost ability and willingly received the repairs as medals of Honor for braving what ever new catastrophe had tried to pommel it down. The house had seen many things in it's lifetime.. but this particular story is not about the house. This is the story of a little girl who lived in the house and why it was never a home.
In this particular moment her face is covered in tears, whilst one of her legs I'd stretched out before her the other has unfortunately sunken into the floor which is the downstairs restaurant ceiling and is hanging as a light fixture. The beads of blood form along the scratches almost making a macabre chandelier.
She bites her small 6 year old lips and pulls herself out slowly. Through the direction of her big sister Mimi she muffles the cries and slowly removes the leg from new hole. Quickly Mimi runs downstairs to Dinora, the daughter of Aminta the lady who rents the restaurant. Her 8 year old hands tug on Dinora's skirt. "Excuse me fo you have a cup of water? I need to wash my sister's wounds.." Mimi knew it was a risk .. no matter who paid who every one knew that Mimi's mom was the local whore and druggie and noone in Honduran society would be associated with her or her filthy offspring. But sometimes.. "here, go take this but don't ask for more. Now, Go! And get out of my sight !" Quickly she grabbed the cup ran thru the backyard piled high with trash and old clothes and grabbed a not so moldy rag she rinsed with water from the cats bowl and ran upstairs to see how Chachis was holding on. Sometimes no matter how many times she cleaned she couldn't stop the blood . Those were the times she fainted and Mimi would place her head on her lap stroke her hair and sing for her. At times like this Mimi prayed her sister would wake up.
She ran up the flight of stairs, time ripping her subconscious Too long . The repetitions nagged at her, desperation drove the words like a hammer .. it rebertebrated with every step almost like a chant .. . A younger she, had changed the words to make it personal.. blasphemy aside her little heart believed God would not mind.. so she began:
The Lord is our Shepherd, we shall not want.
He lets us lie down in green pastures;
He leads us beside the still and quiet waters.
He refreshes and restores her soul
Even though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
We fear no evil, for You are with us....
YOU ARE READING
the waiting
Non-FictionI could never write a story without a happy ending.. But this is not just a story This is someone's real lifetime This is my life. After years of people advising me to write down everything that hars happened from my childhood trafficking by my o...
