Summer sweat runs like a fever: sweet and sick; saline licks of forehead drips, eyes and bees sting, rain is less than a memory, and a memory is more than a flood. When my skin starts to crisp and crack -- turn to scales and shed -- I remember a half-lizard boy named Me, Luke, a dad named Him, a full-grown reptile man -- cold-blooded and all -- and a momma named Her, a jewel, as pretty as sunshine and not a lizard at all. Momma was an unjaded, shiny something with too many layers. She could say things like, "Pick me the stars reptile man, they wanna wear me." She would say things like "Can't you do something, reptile man? Something beautiful and shining? For me? A something that would twinkle?"

And Dad would say things like, "You have enough stuff that sparkles, don't you?"

"Something ... " she'd mumble. "Please ..." and start to cry a little.

"Don't start this with me now, don't cry. I ... I'll buy you something, just stop crying! Stop that!" But the reptile man never understood that what she wanted he couldn't buy, and what she longed for he couldn't give. Other times she'd be quiet, like library people, and wash dishes or clean; she made things shine. When the great king reptile would scuttle to work, Momma and I would tell stories and play games. She'd tell stories about the amber moon and of how it would be stolen by thieves during the day and about a place past the moon, where there were insects made of emerald, that never would bite, people made of crystal, that never would lie, nights made of onyx, that never would frighten, and skies made of sapphires, that never would fall ... "

And I asked and I wished that there could be dinosaurs!

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" she said. "Big ones -- like our reptile man -- made of topaz, that never would yell." After that, we'd play lizard games: I would scurry on all fours, or elbows and knees, while Momma would try to catch me. But even then, I'd squirm free; but even then ... Dad would come home and chill us with his cold blood. He couldn't help it. He was born a reptile.

"Stop it, Jewel! The floors are dirty. Why do you have him crawling around? Why!? Can't I trust you to take care of my boy? Can't I? Huh? Trust you at all?"

"He's a lizard because of you! I'm only teaching him to shed his skin!" And if Dad would get real mad, she'd start screaming. The same word over and over:

"Cold! Cold! Cold! Cold! Cold! Cold!" till Dad and I wanted to crawl away because she was too bright and jewels aren't supposed to scream.

Then one day, right after the fourth of July, I decided that I would get Momma some twinkles. But even then, I didn't understand what she really wanted and needed ... even then. Every day on the roadside and every night on the roadside, I'd see the shines and twinkles in the gravel. There were pretty things like Momma liked right at the roadside, right there. I thought they'd wear her. They could be seen every day and every night; why didn't my body get them? The moon liked them, the sun liked them, I liked them, and Momma would like them. Going outside that day, I told Momma that I wouldn't go far and lied a little because lizards and boys shouldn't play by the road. But I had to.

The sun wore me and made my old, once-white, now fever-yellow, undershirt stick to my back. Barefoot on the cooking strip of jet road, I scurried off into the gravel while cars zoomed by. Gravel was cooler but meaner. I tiptoed to there! And there! Where I found an emerald! A ruby! A sapphire! A diamond! I caught them as quickly as I could, and they made my hands itch like chigger bites. Before long, I had a bunch and Momma would like them all. Cars were zooming, my feet were angry, my hands were itchy and wet, and sweat was coming out of my head. That's enough, I thought, and began to stand up, when there -- running from the house -- was Momma, running to me!

"Momma!" I called. "You ruined it. My surprise." She stopped three feet in front of me and put her hands to her faceted face; she had lapis lazuli eyes and sapphire swirls smeared around them that dripped down her face and onto garnet lips. I held my hands up to show her the precious things, and I was holding on tight because I didn't want to lose any and because they were small. And my hands were soaking wet, and ruby-red drops and sticky strings were running between my fingers and onto my toes, so I thought maybe I was dropping rubies at first. Momma's garnet lips opened, and words as sharp as diamonds came out:

"No! No! No! No-o-o! No-o-o! No-o-o! No-o-o! No-o-o-o! No! No! No! No!" A car stopped, and someone got out. Momma kept screaming the same thing, "No-o-o! No-o-o! No! No!" I put my wet, full hands around her and tried to cool her down with my half-lizard skin. She hit the big person, who swore and said he' d "... call the authorities, you crazy bitch!" Momma had turned to stone, and I had too because I was touching her. Then the police came and couldn't understand. And the king reptile came home and found us, as we were at the roadstead, with policemen who wanted Momma to be worn by their bracelets, but she didn't like silver.

"Maybe if they were crystal," she said. Dad made everything freeze; Momma and I turned to sapphire glaciers. Dad made the policemen go away with negative temperatures, which summer had never seen. Dad got Momma and I to shift back to a silent jewel and a half-lizard boy. We went home.

After I washed my hands and the gems that I'd found and put the gems away, s ome doctors gave me stings and strings. The doctors wanted to take my jewels. I screamed and cried till Dad put the roadside jewelry into a Baggie and took us home.

Momma left for awhile because the reptile man took her somewhere. Sometimes he took me there to see her, and she wasn't very shiny and was always tired. She cried about missing the stars and the moon and the onyx night, the shiny things. At home, I had a keeper who fed me while Dad was away. But she wasn' t beautiful like Momma, and the sun didn't like her, she didn't like the moon, and she wasn't good at dealing with half-lizard boys.

When Momma came home, her lids were lower, she kept busy and slept a lot, and she didn't know very many stories anymore. She didn't want me crawling or scurrying, as was my nature, and she was not as vibrant. Dad said she was better now -- safer now -- but she was dull and opaque, instead of shiny and twinkly. Why? On another day, she told me that Dad had taken her to a place where they wore away her shiny coating, and she hoped that I'd never have to go there.

She was so different. I'd wonder why and cry, and sometimes I'd quietly wake her in the middle of the night -- so Dad wouldn't hear -- and take her to a window, so that she could remember the stars, and moon, and night, and other shiny things. Momma would smile, but her lips weren't garnet; her eyes weren't lapis lazuli. I kept asking her about the place with emerald insects that didn't bite, and crystal people that didnt lie, and onyx nights that didn't frighten, and sapphire skies that didn't fall ... and topaz dinosaurs -- big ones -- that didn't yell.

She asked me over and over if I would care if she went there. I said I'd be happy and shiny if she was happy and shiny. She told me that she loved me more than brilliant shining anythings, and I said I loved her that way too.

 

Artwork courtesy of and copyright by Daniel B. Holeman, who invites you to visit his Visionary Art Gallery web site - Awaken Visions

Sometime, later, I found her sleeping on the bathroom floor with a little brown empty in her hand and her favorite water glass all spilled and broken. Her eyes were wide and lapis lazuli, her lips were open and garnet, and her skin was pearly. And even before Dad got home and screamed unlike a reptile and called lots of people over, I knew. I knew she'd gotten to that other place that she loved. And I loved her then and now and was and am happy and shiny because she is happy and shiny -- there.

 

I am 25 years less alive. My avocations include the study of psychology, Latin, philology, and Norse mythology. In my free time, I enjoy strength training and viewing avant-garde cinema. My vocations include writing fiction and poetry; I'm a freelance daydreamer of dark fantasies.