Oracle

by Thalia Honorat

​

The lady in the next seat down was crying.

I looked up from the warmth and safety

of mother’s lap, and waited patiently, in case

Mama would say what was wrong and I could understand.

She remained silent, her chin raised an inch above

the top of my head. My father,

big warm presence in the other seat, was also quiet

though sobs continued from a small chest not far away.

With childlike curiosity, I wondered

what Mama was gazing at beneath gray fluorescent lights

(we were in one of those grown-up places

where my parents would wait in lines and fill out papers with black pen

while I scribbled on post-its, bored into creativity).

At the moment, I looked past my father

to the lady whose pretty dark hair fell into her face as she cried.

My eyes were wide when she started pleading

with the sudden apparitions of men dressed in gray—she could see

their hands were polite and unsympathetic, guiding her away.

She cried, with a sudden turn to the rest of the room,

why does no one believe me!

and I had long wanted to speak, to help,

and I said meekly, I believe you,

as if it was a question, and I shrank a little

when she turned to me, eyes wide as mine,

(I was suddenly able to register

the lines and dots of her beautifully imperfect skin) and she said,

that’s because you are a kind soul.

Then the room shifted, for she

had spoken to me and I to her and this sudden connection

in the midst of her emotion was provoking bristling fear.

Yet I was not afraid. I continued to look on from the safety of a lap,

my curiosity never faltering

as she calmed and was led away.

Her words repeated to me like some meditative chant.

The context has long since been lost to oblivion,

yet I still wonder whether this crying oracle

brought forth a reliable prophecy.