He saw me seeing Him in the African American Museum. His delicious pink lips, poised to kiss the world, He Whispers I can kiss with words, let His hands become my hand.
“Is this why you make my life impossible, so I’ll have nothing left but words?”
He repeats, “My ways are not your ways.”
“That’s for sure, all I have is myself and words, you have the entire world.”
“You have me,” His chocolate eyes behold me. If I sense He doesn’t behold me I feel lost as Jonah, in the whale, or Daniel in the lion’s den.
He took away my husband, our only child, leaving me only words to begin anew. “In the beginning was the word.” What kind of conversation is that suppose to be? Where is my beginning with words?
“Would you like to see what I have written?” He asks. Whatever, it will be confusing, He’ll justify it by: His ways are not my ways . Before I can object, He opens each finger revealing on the palm of His hand; my name!
He slips into comfortable and settles himself between my words, like chocolate melting on the page. Sometimes I can’t feel His beholding so I cry. You know what He does? He beholds me via this wild-man promise: If I write the words He’ll supply the music.
When People in the museum stop to study us He encourages them to become his eyes and ears. Quickly they dart to the plaque giving information on the artist of “The Mystikal, Chocolate Jesus,” Carol Castano.
One afternoon emptiness overcame me. I beg Him,“Please give me something definite to go on. Anything. Some kind of clue.”
“Okay, He replies, “Draw a tombstone with your name, then, below your name, write the year you were born.”
“1936,” I say, scribbling in the numbers, “The year England had three kings,” Oh no, I should never have ad libbed, now He’ll carry on about Wallis Simpson, King Edward and Queen Elizabeth’s father.
Instead He said, ”Remember I am King, I permit gray in my beard, as a reminder time lines end. So, after 1936, draw a line leaving blank the date of your death.” Those mystikal chocolate eyes claim my being, I never felt so alive. I could become His light as each of us might become each others light. I never thought of it as a proposal, I thought I had been framed. If I am in Him and He is in me there is no death, only beauty. I am forever there, melted into Him through the mystikalness of art.