The rain turn the whole world lugubrious yesterday. Long, grey water falling from a gloomy sky, blot out colour, even them green trees look grey yesterday, dammit.
After the heavy shower ease off into dots, we went to the fruits ‘n’ veggie market, Bourda market.
Ohh, how the town look dinghy...clumps of litter here and there, soggy and sad in the grass parapet. Old mud churn up and mix up with rain and make gooey puddles.
I grump to myself, to market and back, about the nastiness of people, why can't they try, even TRY to make the place look pretty.
They think that the countries Abroad get beautiful by themselves, and they worship the grace of places Abroad, grumble, mumble, when they gon understand that is we the people who make the loveliness or the ugliness of a place? Grumble, mumble, all the way home.
The grey rain tumble down again. Through we gate, sitting in the car, scrambling for umbrella, got to go open the gate, I see a crimson hibiscus in a plant pot.
How strange, I think. Only jasmine grow there.
“Look a hibiscus in the plant pot there by the gate,” I say to my mother.
She say, “Nah, is them petals from the tree above that fall in the pot.”
I open the gate and look.
A small plant bearing a huge, crimson hibiscus plunk down there amongst them leaves, in the jasmine pot. The flower look like royalty, plush and velvety with the deepest crimson petals and a dark stamen with a yellow-gold crown.
A white plastic label been hanging around the stem, the label of a plant nursery.
Right away I know. Eastern European woman-friend, married to we Guyanese friend. Bet they been to a plant nursery, buy the crimson hibiscus for my mother and drop it off on they way home, hide it as a surprise. [When my mother phone them that is exactly what did happen.]
I pick up the plant, show it to my mother. She face light up, look like she feeling the same as me when I discover the flower. I put it in a safe place, later we gon plant it.
On and off, for the rest of yesterday, a cliché chant run through me head. Perform random acts of kindness. Then, in the foolish way my brain can twist and loop and change things to sound silly, it become perform crimson acts of beauty.