Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root,

Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,

And tangerines and mangoes and grapefruit,

Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,

Set in the window, bringing memories

Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,

And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies

In benediction over nun-like hills.

My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze;

A wave of longing through my body swept,

And, hungry for the old, familiar ways,

I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.

Xochitl often thinks of that picture, the picture only she can see now. Of her grandmother, one of which she had never spoken. She's always there, in the same silence, amazing. It's the only picture she sees herself in. In her grandmother, the one she had not met and never will. Already dead in the war—by the war. The massacre. It's the only image Xochitl likes in her new home. Now that she's surrounded by this sudden foreignness. The photo is one of the few things she recognizes, in which she finds delight.

It's not that Xochitl looks anything like her grandmother. The likenesses between them end in blood and perhaps the tone of their skin: ochre, much like a prairie landscape in autumn. Her grandmother was no Gibson girl (the measure of beauty that regulated that time): she looks too mature, even though, in her mother's words, she was only eighteen in the photo. Skin a rich tone of sepia. Eyes much too large, making the expression to pronounce. As it stares out at nothing, to her—Xochitl. It sees everything that happened in the house, watching over it like a second Christ. If it was not for her piousness, Xochitl might have whispered a few prayers to her. The un-anointed saint. Whose skin dried like claws by the times in the fields. The aquiline nose, the nose her mother carry, the nose Hitoshi, her older brother, inherited, and finally, the mouth. Painted red? An act of insurgence. Xochitl laughs.

Her grandmother's silence is what she imagines the ones in crabs' shells to be. Safe. Untainted, very much like the silence of the painted picture of Christ, her mother will bless with prayers every morning, afternoon, and night. Wherein the comfort of her childish imagination: he was half-man as he'd a beard, half-woman since he'd long hair. Expression sad, as he watches us. See us. 'Everyone can look, but to see is an art one has to learn.' The words of her mother, the one she remembers every time she looks at the photo of her grandmother as it looks back at her. Watching. Seeing. Quiet. For Xochitl, the silence of the picture had always been a confidant. A friend, absorbing all it is told and never revealing those secrets. Always giving the best advice — its meaningful silence can be interpreted any way you choose.

Perhaps, this is what you call a false idol. Xochitl almost laughed, though she did find herself smiling. She can only fight so much.

Steadily, with her grandmother encouraging silence, under her watchful gaze, Xochitl is starting to copy her grandmother in the photo. Xochitl notices that her mother has noticed—she will be a fool not to. How she began to carry herself. How she started to become more selective with her mode of dress. Xochitl believes her taste of fashion hadn't shifted contrary wise to her Mother's words. It was already there. All there, but she hadn't taken upon it. (Nothing had yet been done). This fondness for this current style of fashion already existed inside her. The move just confirms it. With the embroidery shirt with woven birds and blood-red flowers. The mid-calf dyed wrap-around skirt, her childish, awkward body almost cease to exist as it becomes adequate.

With it, Xochitl felt like she hadn't really left home. That she would be greeted with the smell of morning mist and the smell of the damp earth from the dew, before racing to the river. Which was too cold to bathe in but she still risk dipping her toes. Instead, she only wakes to see cold grey walls and the distant humming of the city.

Xochitl also began to care for her hair. As she brushed and comb her hair in thick braids, just as her mother taught her and like her mother's mother did to her. Her hair is thick, soft, heavy, burdensome. Xochitl often heard it's her prettiest feature, and she takes that to mean she's not pretty. She often thinks of cutting off her hair at the neck. Her face, looking awkward at the newfound nakedness. Then think, what will they now say about her?

'She has nice eyes. Her skin is not at all awful.'

In truth, her look was outdated — Xochitl feared they never were in. Probably in the thirties when exoticism was flagrant, her mind persuades. However, she knows she's at the losing end of the argument. She has often been told her face reminds one of a brooder: tired face those rings around the eyes, in advance of time and experience. She had heard, somewhere, that is because of spending all of one's childhood in the overly hot sun. Xochitl has never believed it. Taking it with the same staidness as she will take those other sayings, she heard whispered, laced with superstition. Though, she's never the one to ignore the words of her elders—her betters— as she took caution. Never the one to wash her face with rice water before bed, to count at funerals, or play with her shadows under the watchful eyes of the moon...

Her father notices too. Her changes. Thinking it's rooted in childish notions, that she's acting out, rebelling. With further words from his family, he believes it was some sickness. He believes Xochitl is ill. The words spoken by the doctor are still fresh, have not yet healed, still red and raw: 'A move this big will affect her. She needs time to adjust.' The way it was said intuitively suggested that it was expected, like one reflection in a mirror. Xochitl would like to hide and say that those words haven't shaken her, but she's no fool. The words cut deep, opening wounds she believes didn't exist (or at least she thought had healed) wide open to metaphorical flies, infections.

What about her brothers: Hitoshi, Ryuuzu? Are they too affected? If not, what made them so different— other than their glaring sex, that is? Is it that? Is it that they are men (boy, Ryuuzu has still yet to shave)? Is it that if someone were to stick them into a crowd, they will fit perfectly like round pegs? Is it... Is it... Is it? Xochitl can ask herself all these questions, but she knows that in truth, deep down, she didn't want the answers. She's no fool or naive enough to tell herself otherwise she thinks it, knows it, sees it. She's afraid.

However, her mind appears to have a mind of its own. Wild. Untamed. Loud. Xochitl notes her mind, at times, is like a river. Always a river, not a sea or ocean. Never. She always likes a river. It reminds her of home. Of bathing naked in the morning mist, cooking at the riverbanks, and women beating their clothes clean on the flat-broad stones. The river that the people will abandon at least twice a year when a person drowned. Fear of the curse, the jumbies[1], haunted souls — wait to claim another. For them to join it in its misery. The river, wherein November rain become muddy-brown. The river where a hurricane can be blowing inside the water and the curse souls crying. Yet, like blood under the skin, it made no noise. Deceit. Inviting you in to only be swept away in the terrible current, watching your last moments.

Xochitl thinks her mind is like this, a deceitful river. The water is so strong it could carry everything away— a thought, an entire day, a city. Xochitl was now being swept away by the current. Everything else drowned out. The water beat loudly in her ears. Her efforts to stay afloat, to have some self-awareness of her current environment, are lost. Her cries and pleads as she goes under were strangled to silence. No one above will hear. No one above will know that she's drowning-dying. Like the countless unfortunate life lost to the river. No one will know- not until they are dead. Not until they are spit out on the banks, bloated with their soft skin peeling: from the beating and the fish bites. Now the great body of water in her mind is flowing fast as if the earth sloped downward. Emptying into the seas or the ocean (she's not certain)—calming.

Xochitl bites at her nails. A nasty habit she wished she will end someday. However, the abuse of her cuticles tells that she will not, by any time soon, stop. She was supposed to be studying. That was the premise of her excuse to her manager and the condition for her break. However, the Walkman is left forgotten, still on. She can faintly hear the whisper of Japanese from the earphones on the table. Along with the empty notepad.

The noises of the restaurant bleed in. At first, just the whistle of the pressure cooker was the only sound she can hear. Then, the rest came, flowing: the couple's laughter a few seats down, the cutleries, shouts (arguments even), the passing traffic. The sounds of Shibuya at its afternoon climax. Amazingly loud. Then a voice? Speaking in an undertone, though there were traces of gruffness to it. The words they were using were informal at most, friendly? Xochitl decided to inspect them. A smile curls on his lips after their eyes meet, and she felt something like guilt licking at the lower part of her stomach. She wasn't listening to his conversation. She didn't know she was involved in a conversation. Xochitl flashed him an apologetic smile. However, it was lost in translation (like most everything she has done here in Japan). His voice became thick with excitement. His Kanto accent and Yankii slang, making it difficult for her to understand what he was saying. But she believes it's about a biking accident. How old is he for him to own a bike? Who is he again?

Xochitl often finds herself mixing up the faces of those she met: the man at the bus stop was the same as the other person seated beside her on the train. Is that racist? Can she be racist when she's a part of the race, although to some degree? The familiarity flared, though dimly like those pea-worms[2] in the dead summer night. Twinkling, shining, before being strangled by the night darkness—gone. It was gone. Perhaps she was making it up. He continues to talk, his question easier to decipher than the previous one. How was her day? She did not answer. There is no point in answering. What would she say?

She waits.

Nervous, his fingers begin tapping at the table.

He continues.

He starts another tale, done away with questions after such a disastrous attempt. Xochitl thinks of throwing him a bone, an act of kindness but his name. What was it? It's damning that she fails to remember, guilt eating away at her like decay. Luckily—thankfully— he is in control of the conversation. The air between them luckily (thankfully, again) matured past the stage of stating each other's name. Maybe later in their talks, his name will pop up. So, she listens while trying to discern noticeable features. Making use of the time she got before he gets greedy for her answers. Sable, wild hair. Brown eyes—almost hazel—vibrant, shocking on such fawnskin. His gestures were wild. His aids to help paints whatever he was saying clearer. It fails. Xochitl listens anyways. From her time in Japan, she'd notice many shies away from eye contact, even those she believes there was some sort of acquaintanceship between them. Eye contact was too forward, too demanding. So western. Yet, he demands it. Brightens whenever their eyes meet. And familiarity flared. This time like striking a match-stick in the thick black-out-dark. Burning beautifully. Then the wind comes...and it has gone.

Xochitl wished she was paying attention as his story had come to an end. He sits waiting for her replies. Feeling stupid, she lets slip: "Oh?" Her face, warm with embarrassment. A smile that almost read as apologetic plays on his lips. While his hand eases the tension at his neck the current atmosphere carries, before continuing.

Any sensible person who is minutely receptive to the tone of the environment would have seen that all conversation between her was senseless, and would have discarded any hopes and plans of future engagement between her. In all probability, he is not entirely sharp. It is an argument easy to use, but it misses the point. Even if he's nothing but a simple-minded individual, he does not stop talking to her. Xochitl, even now, is a bit surprised that he wanted to speak to her in the first place. It did something to her heart, a needle through a juju doll. He does not ask for much effort on her part, only for Xochitl's undivided attention. Looking up, sheepishly? The word does not suit him. Even not knowing him (remembering him), she can see he is anything but sheepish. Roguish. Debonair was a few of the adjectives that came to her mind as she looked at him. Those suited him shared traits of her brother, Ryuuzu. She can almost laugh. She does not.

She can see him, Ryuuzu, or rather a memory of him. Back home under the spreading shade of the Royal Poinciana trees, where women beat their clothes clean with stones on the craggy riverbank, their children eyesight away frolicking. And men bathed their meager cattle. Where they used to fetch water whenever the faulty water pipe was not working. Under the burning red― blood-red― Royal Poinciana tree where a man sat, before drowning himself. They said he woke as usual. Kissed his wife, his children and walked himself down the river, two hundred yards east of the settlement, and sat under the shade. Xochitl tried to remember if she had seen him. She must have. He sat there for hours and would have for days. He was waiting for this God-sent sign. What was it? She did not know, and their community couldn't have known either. But what they did know was that it appeared and when it did, he got up, wiped his forehead from sweat before flinging himself into the river. The people were lost at what to do, and when they finally made sense of the situation, and fished him out. He was already dead.

She sees him, her brother, a person she doesn't know what to think of nowadays. There's time that all that fill Xochitl's head was him and how beautiful he is: tawny-olive skin, which the sun warm to the sleepy-golden-brown, like the light that bathed the forest before dawn. He's cunning, always getting the upper hand like the Kriol's' Br'er Tukkuma with Br'er Anansi. Times when they lay in bed, head to foot, and Ryuuzu would tickle Xochitl's feet, and she would laugh until it hurts to breathe, then hugged him until sleep comes. There are times, ugly times when she hated him. When she wished the worst for him. When all she wanted to do was to fight him, though she know she would lose. Yet Xochitl desire to do so anyway. In her dreams or memories, recently, differentiating these two was impossible. (They border dangerously close that one might assume that they are the same). Both were laughing about nothing. Ryuuzu's long slim arms beckoned to her as he laughed and laughed, laughing. And she laughed and laughed, a whole pealing carnival of laughing; that threatens to numb (paralyze) her face forever in the act.

Ryuuzu had an electrifying way of laughing: of him throwing his face back to the sun, his throat glowing. All the boys in her class she's attracted to have long, slim limbs and glowing throats. The boy in front of her has a lovely neck. Another reason to listen to him.

The metaphoric wound she believes didn't exist (or at least she thought had healed) pulsates. Perhaps the doctor was right, everything was happening too fast for her liking, the move, her brother. Xochitl had picked at it too much but, once she starts, Xochitl cannot stop. Compelled by the feeling, how selfish. Despite all this she will, no, she must fight for them, him! They are one, joined together at the navel string! She must fight, she must, to fight, to fight….

"What are you listening to?" It's a much-needed distraction. He leans over the table as if he's too big for the seat.

"Music." It's the truth. For the most part, he didn't have to know that. She gathers it into her lap. Afraid that in-sight it will encourage more questions.

"Who are your favourites? I love 'Akko', she's great, a legend. My mother even said so herself," a smile to punctuate his statement.

Akko? Xochitl's eyes look up, thinking. She sees it first before hearing it, her father study, where it seems both he and Hitoshi is forever fixed in the room. Like one of the amenities. Over the trumpets, saxophones came a voice that reminds her of the uniqueness of Mercedes Sosa and Chavela Vargas. It's lovely, she decides. It reminds her of old Méxican Rancheras, of Punta rock.

She hums in agreement. "I like Furui Nikki," Xochitl admits.

His smiles leave creases on his face as he bends closer. Xochitl folded her arms at the edge of the table, notepad in her lap.

"I figured much; you have the same look as my mother. She prefers Akko's earlier work."

Look? That's a lie, that she was sure of. She looks nothing like them, words of her family. However, his eyes didn't indicate any deceit, transparent, cool, like the calm sea reflecting the mid-morning sky. For the time being, she will believe him, lost in these few moments, no longer an extension to her family and their words. She deserves this much, right?

He continues, "Any new musicians that catch your attention?"

"No."

"Oh. I can understand that. The newer artists are so cheap compared to the likes of Akko and Momoe."

"There's nothing to it, empty. And what's the point of listening to empty music. It goes against everything that music is supposed to mean. It's to take you somewhere. No-one goes on a bus, and just as it's supposed to set off you get up and leave," a pause as he plays with his sleeves, "makes no sense, right?"

"Not unless you change your mind mid-way."

He looks puzzled. She used the right words, didn't she? Uncertain, Xochitl repeats her statement in slow, precise words.

A hard look, then a smile.

"Perhaps, but it is still a waste of time. Why does anything if you're half-hearted? Only do it whenever you're settled on the situation. That's more gratifying. Isn't it?"

"…"

"That's what my mother always said."

"…"

"Does your mother ever say anything funny like that to you?"

ウザい? That's a new one. Certainly adding that to the book. Her finger itch to take the pen. However, he awaits her response, and there's a word she also wanted to try as well.

"Not necessarily." Xochitl picks at her nails, then glances at him. ビミョー is one of the many trends words she heard seventh-graders using. However, he shows no reaction, well, none note-worthy. She should have known better.

The sky outside is pink smog with a wash-out-orange. Her shift is coming to a close, and Xochitl feels something like relief washing over her.

"Yes," her final answer.

"See, all mothers are the same, like some invisible link or something, yeah?"

Xochitl hums.

He shifted in his seat.

It must have hurt. She admits the store doesn't have the most comfortable chairs, and to a growing boy like him just spells discomfort at the highest levels.

His elbows on the table, leaning forward, fingers itching at his cheeks. Xochitl sees something in his nails that look likes motor oil and... dried blood?

"Haikara," he continues in hopes to clear her current confusion, "It's a record store in Harajuku near Takeshita Street. It's a popular mikusuchā-rokku CD store. They have CDs and tapes that range from modern Enka, Kayōkyoku, City pop, rock, metal—"

"Do they have Buru—Calypso?" Xochitl asks hands pressing onto the table, her lips purse.

For the first, he falters, scrambling to get his thoughts in order.

"I don't know—I think so, they must have!"

Xochitl turns from the window.

"Like I said it's mikusuchā-rokku, it wouldn't be a proper western store without any western music, for one I know it has Kundiman and Pinoy pop."

Xochitl's eye looks up. Following a pregnant pause, she hums. Satisfy.

"They have a special, sales, every Thursday."

"That's…good."

"Half-half, I usually try to make a trip there now and then, but most of the good ones gone by the time I reach. It only lasts from twelve to five. Bummer."

"It would be nice if they have some Calypso or even Marimba…" Xochitl said more or less to herself.

A smile that bleeds assurance spreads across his face, his finger tapping on the spot her notebook sat earlier. However, Xochitls didn't want assurance. She needs affirmation.

One. Two. Three, the river in her mind threatens to swell.

"I'll be going there this Thursday—"

"Xochitl!"

The river recedes. Xochitl's body twists in an uncomfortable position in the chair. It stings in her side, yet she ignores it. She knows that voice anywhere, so loud (so irritating), yet against her better judgment, Xochitl turns to face the newcomer. Her companion across her eyes darts to the male in front: citrine skin and uncombed brown hair, sticking to his forehead from the heat, no doubt provided by his time stirring dutifully above the steaming pots.

He appears to sag, wet pages, a promise to tear if continue under said pressure. Perhaps it was this Xochitl decided to spare him from bitter remarks in her mind. He stops his shadow, a divider between her and her unknown companion. His back to him.

"If you're not studying we need you to work."

Her lips draw in a thin line. The sky outside dye in purples, pinks, and reds at the end. The sun was nowhere to be spotted. Smogged by the clouds, the pollution.

"Your shift has not yet ended, furthermore we need some help boxing some deliveries."

She closes her eyes, hands dwindling with the buttons of her Walkman. The click! of the buttons much satisfying that she did it again and again.

A sigh.

Probably she shouldn't push him too far. The bags under his tired dark eyes, his weight looks anything but healthy.

"Look, I know that the condition for you working is much lax compare to us part-timers, but,"

But?

"Don't let me remind you of the promise you made. Besides, the boss is this close to letting you go. It's not like you're doing much around here. Not that you can. Damn middle schoolers,"

Xochitl perks. He's lying, that she knows. Yamal is always an incompetent lier: he fidgets and breaks eye contact. She can see he is inspecting a spot on his apron, foot shaking. Though, she's not embarrassed to admit his words have the desired effects. She dreads the thought of leaving. The pay was meager, and before working here, she'd known it. However, being employed had confirmed the knowledge. Xochitl is terrible with people. Nonetheless, she can't see herself not working here. It nurses the throbbing wound (though poorly), yet she cannot complain. It had yet to fester with infection, and with that, she can feel content. This was better than nothing.

'Sometimes, it is best to have nothing. Then you'll not know how it is to feel to lose.'

Don't listen. Ryuuzu isn't always right.

(He's always right).

"You're leaving?"

She has almost forgotten him. During the short conversation between herself and Yamal, he has stretched himself over the table. An expression of confusion masks his face, no doubt from the result of Xochitl and Yamal's brief chat in English. His fingers threaten to brush a stray hair from her braids. His eyes, talking. Asking. It hurts to look. She has yet to recall his name.

She hums in response, her notebook and walkman clutch in one hand.

"Hurry up! Lumandi sa kasintahan mo mamaya."

Yamal stalks off and Xochitl is about to follow when she stops and looks at him, thinking what to say.

'See you later.' That's a bit too much. A promise she cannot afford. Xochitl is frugal in that way. In the end, she decided on a simpler alternative. With no opening for questions, buts, or what-ifs. Something simple and clean. One blow kills: "It was nice talking to you."

A bow. No smile. She's still working on that.

Authors note:

1: Jumbie- Creole, means ghost/spirits

2: Pea-woms creole, firefly

The chapter title is taken from The Motorcycle Diaries by Ernesto Che Guevera. Y YA SIENTO FLOTAR MI GRAN RAÍZ LIBRE Y DESNUDA… Y which translates to: and now, I feel my great roots unearth, free and…

This Chapter is also highly influenced by the novel The lover by Margurite Duras.

The poem is by Claude McKay named The Tropics In New York.