I know it’s technically just a shirt; I completely understand that.
Yet, it’s also so much more than that.
At least, I think it is…
It was actually brand new the first [and perhaps last] time I wore it. The gorgeous thing arrived in the mail just days before I hopped the kind of midnight flight you usually only book at the last minute in the case of a family emergency.
The blouse wasn’t anything spectacular in itself back then, but I also knew the moment I saw and held it for the first time that it would fit me perfectly…
And, sure enough, that soft t-shirt blouse looked pretty great when I put it on for the first time just hours after reaching my destination. It was as if that top was made for me.
However, what I didn’t realize as I nonchalantly slipped into my new shirt that morning is that I was actually in the process of greeting a day I‘ll never forget for the rest of my life.
Here’s the thing:
Within [about] an hour of putting on that top for the first time (9:30 A.M. or so), I watched my grandmother die before my very eyes (10:27 A.M., to be exact), held her lifeless hands in my own for as long as I possibly could, did what I could not to cry over her corpse, and whispered all the things I never got a chance to tell her during the final years of her life in the hopes her spirit would hear me before departing that room. It was in that t-shirt [which I actually selected for that visit in the hopes she’d have liked it on another day many years ago when she could’ve still appreciated it] that I kissed her wrinkled forehead, stroked her stark white hair, gripped her withered hands as she’d always done mine, and touched her for the last time.
That was the blouse that I had on as my grandmother passed away upon her actual deathbed, just feet away from me. In that, it’ll be marked in my mind forevermore as a shirt unlike all the others I own.
There’s nothing better than being a Daddy’s girl… Especially when your Daddy is your own, personal superhero, as well as Hades, the legendary King of the Underworld…
I wouldn’t say I was exactly estranged from my mother and half-siblings by the time the “Summer of Mango,”[as I eventually came to know it] had finally faded into a series of fond memories. Regardless, I wouldn’t say I was an active member of our family’s flock back then either.
Nevertheless, there was one entity concerned with my biological roots who I was still very much in touch with around that time. We’d always been on good terms; yet, shortly after my first bloody encounter with the Deluxxe family (in which I left the mother slain in order to redeem the honor of our own family’s matriarch [and my own, dignity, of course]), our rate of correspondence ascended to a new level altogether.
My father, Hades, was very impressed by my display of initiative, skill, and honor, as well as my inclination towards gore. The King of the Underworld also went by Pluto; as my namesake, he’d done a pretty splendid job of becoming involved in my life from afar, especially with his intensive, demanding, and rigorous position as the sole Commander of Hell.
And now, I shall bestow upon you all the tale of my first girlfriend: Mango.
After my now-legendary duel with Duxx Deluxxe, in which I achieved redemption for my family (specifically, my mother) and myself, I left home and waddled out into the world. Before long, I found myself adorned in a jacket I’d handcrafted and stuffed with goose feathers, merely trekking through the magnificent, magical mountains of Asia as the most brilliant folk often do.
Therefore, it was in Himalayas that Mango and I experienced our initial encounter.
Once upon a time, back when I was still a baby duck, my mother was a drag king. She was actually the most famous one in our pond. I was so proud to be her daughter…
Until the day she was challenged to a duel and fell under the sword of fellow drag king, Duxx Deluxxe.
Just like that, I was suddenly more ashamed than I had ever been of anything in my life.
Our noble family name was ruined. How could we ever look the other ducks in the eye?! Even the geese were mocking us, led by that awful, moronic Mother Goose…
My mother settled for being second-best after her defeat, but I wouldn’t accept that fate for us. Thus, I made the necessary arrangements, and proceeded to do what had to be done for both my family and myself.
Like me, Rupi Kaur is a first-generation, Indian-Canadian (not Indian-American, but still very similar), twenty-something-year-old woman [and poet].
This isn’t exactly a “concoction” a girl like myself, who didn’t know any other writers [or even about the #WritingCommunity] until just a few months ago], saw every day…. Or, any day, really [outside of myself].
In fact, I still don’t.
We’re minorities in more ways than one and, in that, I absolutely knew I had to check out Rupi’s poetry when she dropped her first book, Milk and honey.
I don’t usually write book reviews; as a matter of fact, this is actually the first one I’ve ever posted on this blog.
My [unintentional] “celibacy” in regards to not blogging about other authors’ books persisted for a long while without any glitches. It’s not exactly like I was going out of my way to resist reviewing other authors’ work either; blogging about books just wasn’t my thing, and there were other things I preferred to rant about back in former days.