The Ghosts of Rose Hill by R. M. Romero
Author:R. M. Romero [Romero, R. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Holiday House
Published: 2022-05-10T00:00:00+00:00
Chapter Twenty-Five
Benjamin must not know
I followed him and Pearl through Old Town;
he is all smiles
when he greets me in the cemetery
on Sunday.
I want you to meet the boys
Iâve known for so long
theyâre almost my little brothers, Benjamin says.
Will you let me take you to them?
I laugh my yes.
What was I so afraid of on Friday?
Benjamin must be happy
in the black house,
even if his existence
isnât perfect,
even if Wassermann is stricter
than he might like.
My parents are the same way.
I let Benjamin lead me
through the garden, hungry
(always hungry now)
to be part of his
(after)
life.
I fly down the road,
the concrete
sizzling, popping
under the wheels of Auntâs Žofieâs
mint-colored bicycle.
The black violin is in the basket;
its strings
try to sing
as it rattles in its case.
Benjamin sits behind me
and for the first time,
I can feel
his wrist digging into my hip,
the swell of his belly
fitting into the small of my back.
Am I imagining things?
Have I remembered Benjamin to life?
Or has the blue-eyed boy himself
recalled:
how to be made of breath and bone,
how to fit an arm around a girlâs waist,
how to be part of a city
that moved on without him
in the summer heat?
I donât know.
But maybe one day,
Benjamin will fool time itself
and it will allow him
back into Prague,
solid enough
for me to wrap myself
around properly.
Steadying my heartbeat,
I follow the map
Benjamin murmurs
in my ear.
We pass under Charles Bridge
and into another park
beside the river.
Two
(dead)
children stand
in the shadow of a tree
so old
it could be the same one
Queen Libuše sat beneath
when she met her husband,
the plowman
who would be king.
I wave
at Benjaminâs near-brothers.
Their eyes
(deep and brown
as spring earth)
widen.
These children are much younger
than the boy I can
(nearly)
call mine;
theyâre only nine
or ten.
Theyâre dimmer than Benjamin is,
winking in and out
like stars
as I stare at them.
But their clothes
remind me of his:
crisp white shirts,
dark trousers,
their socks rumpled,
their kipot lopsided.
Did the twins
plan every wrinkle
in their slacks to match?
Did they intend to be
such perfect mirrors?
Or were they born this way
in the twentieth centuryâs early days?
In Miami,
I would have been so jealous of these boys.
Iâd never had a friend so close
that I couldnât tell
where he began
and I ended
until Benjamin.
Maybe he and I
are supposed to be twins.
Maybe we were,
in some other life.
Maybe our souls
were hidden away
inside birds
or fauns
to keep us safe
from a witch,
a viper,
a plague.
Maybe we walked
the streets of a different city,
in another time and place,
together,
just like we do now.
Iâm Lior, says the first boy.
And my brother
is Issur.
Lior bounces,
his soul
a shiny red balloon
ready to float away
into the July skyline.
But the roses growing
under his rumpled collar
are in a sad state,
just like Pearlâs.
They contain
only a hint of sunshine yellow.
Onkel Wassermann
told us all about you.
He says
youâre going to be our friend.
Is that true?
Issurâs words have gravity,
a heaviness
that his twinâs do not.
Of course, I promise.
Any friend of Benjaminâs
is a friend of mine.
Issur and Lior
form the ends
of each otherâs sentences,
a ring of never-ending boyhood
and all the light that comes with it.
But girlhood is different.
It comes with painâ
the bite of my ruby slippers
against the backs of my ankles,
the hard snap of rhinestone nails
on the summit of my kneecap,
my scalp prickling
as I bleached my hair
when I was fourteen.
Pain like that turns pleasant;
you start thinking of it
as an accomplishment.
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