Like when Mama saw Jesus walking, Uncle looks so long outside through the window with his eyes widening and squinting and before you know it he's up and out the door, the screen banging shut behind him. How come Papa always yells at me for banging the screen and never Uncle Harry? When Papa yells at me, I usually shut him out by holding my hands over my ears so hard that I can hear myself swallow so it sounds like thunder, and simply hearing nothing is like the ocean rolling. I can't hear him no more when I do that.
Since Papa's just sitting there reading, and not paying any attention to me -- which is the way I like it -- I slowly get up and walk behind my uncle. I try to be quiet, as to not disturb Papa when he's reading. Papa sits in his easy chair every evening and reads the newspaper and tells me to be quiet cause it's his quiet time and he doesn't have anything easy. I know it's hard to concentrate when you're reading and someone sees it fit to make noise. I'm interrupted by my little brother Richard all the time, not only when I'm reading. That boy seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to bothering people. He'll push against you, brush against you when you're writing so your hand shoots up the paper. He'll ask you the most pointless questions about the most meaningless things, and when you answer him, the next question will no doubt be Why? Why is this thing like that, why is that thing the way it is? Mama has the greatest patience answering him, she can answer him all day while she's cutting the greens. I usually tell him that the thing is the way it is because that is the way it is, and that the thing is like that because that's what it's like.
He never understands.
I step outside and, needless to say, I hold the screen so it doesn't bang. I feel the small square grated with my fingers, and a prick piece of wire twisted and pulled out. Maybe papa doesn't mind Uncle Harry banging the screen because Uncle can't be sent back to the jungle if he's the one banging. I happen to think papa yells at me when I bang the screen because I'm a child, and because I ripped the knob off my bedroom door pulling it one time. I was trying to open the door and it wouldn't budge, no matter how hard I pulled, and I pulled on it hard . Finally, once I managed to brace myself against the wood with my feet, the door popped open. It was when I let the door go that the stupid knob fell off. Papa was angry, even though it wasn't my fault since mama said that things around the house always starts getting stuck around June, and Mama has to help me pull it out. Papa said I'm gonna fix that damn door Sara Jones, and if you pull on that knob again, I'm gonna tear out your arm and beat you with it. (I'd like to think papa said this tongue in cheek.)
Uncle Harry's standing just off the porch with his hands in his pockets, what he's seeing up there in the black. A breeze touches my skin, cooling, and lifts my Uncle's dark green shirt like a flag. A little bit off I hear the wind chimes by my window, which I listen to every night and fall asleep. It's like hearing a story of the weather in the breeze, and in the winter I can hear the chill they speak of and feel it just rattling through my bones, and when I shut my eyes I can hear the chimes in my dreams.