10 years ago--

The itch on her . 

That’s all Joy can think about when her mother asks her how she’s feeling. The grass is prickling, stinging and she wants to go home, but her mother likes it here. Joy tells herself she will put up with the itch for a while longer. Just because her mother’s wrinkles seem to disappear whenever they’re here.

Joy and her mother are lying next to each other, beside the pond. They’re at their secret place. An area secluded from curious eyes. Every time they visit, there’s no one here so Joy assumes it’s theirs. She enjoys having all of this green space to themselves. 

She has asked her mother before where they are exactly. Her reply is that it’s a sacred place for their clan, a place to connect with their ancestors. It doesn’t mean much to Joy, she’s not really interested in connecting with dead people.

At any rate, another thought pops in her head. Another question, one that has been bugging her for a long time. It wouldn’t hurt to ask again. Her mother might answer since she’s in a good mood. 

“Mom, could you please finally tell me what happened to Dad?” Creases beside her mother’s eyes. Joy patiently waits for an answer.

“Your Dad left when you were born.” 

“I already know that. But why did he leave?” Joy scowls, lips pinched. She wants to know the full story and her mother refuses to tell it to her. She sees children on the streets with both of their parents, a mother and a father. Having fun being a family. 

Inside, she can’t help, but feel a little jealous? Resentful. At her side is only her mother so what happened to her father? 

Joy recognizes her mother working hard as the sole parent to provide adequate food, water and shelter. Other children go on carefree walks in the city with their parents when Joy helps her mother with odd jobs. Making sure they’ll be alive next week.

Her mother shouldn’t have to be so hardworking.   

“Joy, your father had to leave. He had no choice.” 

“He left like a coward, of course he had a choice,” says Joy, spitting bitterness. She gathers her knees together, sitting up. 

“It was for the best. One day, you will understand,” responds her mother. A touch of a smile on her face. Leaning on her elbow, her mother reaches over and grabs Joy’s hand. Tracing a pattern with her finger, onto her daughter’s palm. A spiral going one way and another from the opposite side. 

“Do you remember what this is?” asks her mother. 

“A helix. You taught me when I was five.”

“Yes and what does it mean?”

“Strength,” says Joy. 

“Resilience. It does mean strength, but more so it’s the ability to bounce back. To keep going matter what happens every day.” 

“I’ll memorize the rest of the definition one day.” Her mother laughs at her response. 

“Joy, you are a strong girl. I know you will be fine even when I’m not here,” says her mother. Joy stares at the clear water then back at her mother. Voicing with conviction.    

“I don’t want you to ever leave.”

“Of course I won’t. I will stay with you until I’m eighty, gray, and bald. Walking around with a cane.” 

“Promise? I’ll even buy you the cane.” Joy extends her pinky, her mother shaking it with her own.

“Promise.”

Joy watches her mother lock the doors. Always with care. Double check. Triple check. Peering out the window, blinds slightly parted. Then quickly pulling them shut. All before turning to her, meeting her gaze, and smiling. 

Her mother ties her own hair into a ponytail, baring her forehead. Joy notices the furrowed eyebrows, the bitten lip. The things her mother does every night, she’s used to it now. It’s like a nightly ritual. 

Lock the doors. Check if they’re really locked, especially the one in the back. Make sure the curtains cover the window completely. Do everything on the list before going to bed. 

But something is wrong tonight and she can notice it. Her mother is more nervous, checking, always checking. Joy reaches for her mother’s hand, holding on tightly. 

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Her mother squeezes her hand once. 

“Nothing is wrong. Let’s go to bed,” she replies. Joy trudges to their bed, a mat on the floor, and plops down. Her mother drapes the blanket over her. 

“Aren’t you sleeping too, Mom?” 

“I will join you soon. Sleep, little one.” With that, Joy watches her mother walk to the windows. Peering outside. 

She wants to know why her mother is so worried, but she isn’t telling her. Maybe when she wakes up the next morning, things will be better. All she has to do is sleep. 

Morning never comes. Joy is shaken awake and she opens her eyes. It’s still dark; the sun hasn’t risen. 

Her mother moves frantically. Lifting her into the air, picking her up, carrying her. Joy barely registers her mother running out the backdoor. Into the alley. Rubbing her eyes sleepily, Joy yawns. 

“What’s going on?” she murmurs. 

“Stay quiet, we’re moving again,” reassures her mother. Moving. Joy is now eight years old so she can count to a hundred. And she knows they’ve moved every two weeks or so.

She can recall it starting from when she was three. They’ve probably moved more than a hundred times. Truly, Joy doesn’t mind since it’s like a new adventure every time. 

Then she hears the yelling, roars, and growls. Her mother adjusts her hold on Joy, fingers slipping, sweating. The sounds come closer. They’re nearby.  

“Hold on tight,” says her mother. All of a sudden, Joy feels warm. It’s not just warm, but it’s burning hot. Heat comes off her mother. 

Her mother is glowing, the familiar sandy lioness encircling her form. Her mother moves faster, practically flying down th