Purple Scaffold
Rita builds scaffolding in her living room. Purple pipes. Found them at a yard sale. Didn't know what she'd do with them. Now they're holding her family photos.
She's fifty-four. Lives in Flint. Works at the library.
Her son visits. Says: "Mom, what is this?"
"Scaffolding."
"I can see that. Why is it in your living room?"
"Don't know. Needed somewhere to put photos."
The scaffold is six feet tall. Takes up half the room. Photos clipped to it with binder clips. Her mother. Her grandmother. Her son when he was small. Her father in his Navy uniform.
All hanging. All visible.
Her son says it's weird. She says okay.
He leaves. She adds more photos. Her sister. Her aunt. Cousin who died in Detroit. The baby she lost at four months.
All of them. Up on the purple scaffold.
Her neighbor knocks. Asks about the noise. Rita says sorry. Was just building.
"Building what?"
"Scaffolding."
"In your house?"
"Yeah."
The neighbor leaves. Probably thinks she's crazy.
Maybe she is.
Doesn't take it down though. Just adds more photos.
Her daughter calls from Chicago. Asks what's new. Rita says she's building something.
"What kind of something?"
"Just something."
Her daughter doesn't push. They talk about other things. Granddaughter's school. The weather. Bills.
Rita hangs up. Adds another photo. Her daughter's third birthday. Cake on her face. Happy.
Good.
Her therapist asks about the scaffolding. Rita shows her a photo on her phone.
"What's it for?"
"Holding photos."
"Why scaffolding?"
"It's what I had."
The therapist nods. Writes something.
Rita doesn't explain that it's not really about the photos. It's about building something. Making something stand. Taking up space.
Doesn't know how to say that though.
The scaffold grows. She adds more pipes. Makes it taller. Eight feet now. Almost touches the ceiling.
More photos. Her father's family from Mississippi. Her mother's family from Georgia. Everyone who came here. Everyone who stayed.
All of them on purple pipes. All of them visible.
Her sister visits. Looks at the scaffold. Doesn't say anything for a while.
Then: "Where'd you get all these photos?"
"Mom's house. After she died. Found them in boxes."
"You kept all of them?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Don't know. Seemed important."
They sit under the scaffold. Looking up at all the faces. All the people who came before. All the bodies that had to move to get here.
Her sister says: "It's like a family tree."
"Yeah. But purple."
They both laugh. First time Rita's laughed in months.
Her son brings his daughter over. She's eight. Looks at the scaffold.
"It's purple!"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"That's what color it was."
The granddaughter climbs on it. Rita says be careful. Granddaughter ignores her. Climbs to the second level. Looks at photos.
"Who's this?" she asks. Points to a photo.
"Your great-great-grandmother."
"She looks mean."
"She was a little."
They look at photos together. Rita points. Names people. Some she knows. Some she doesn't. Makes up names for the ones she doesn't know.
Her granddaughter says: "Why are they on pipes?"
"So we don't forget them."
"Couldn't you just put them in a book?"
"Could. But then we wouldn't see them."
The granddaughter nods. Climbs down. Runs off.
Rita adds another pipe. More photos. Her grandfather who worked at the plant. Her aunt who cleaned houses. Her cousin who taught school.
All the people who worked. All the people who survived.
All of them up on purple pipes. All of them taking up space.
Her neighbor complains again. Says the scaffold is visible from the street. Says it looks weird.
Rita says sorry. Doesn't take it down.
Just adds more photos.
---
In Oakland, Marcus hangs flags. Not country flags. Ship flags. Maritime signals. Found them at a flea market. Hung them from his ceiling.
He's sixty-one. Retired dockworker. Lives alone.
His sister asks why he's hanging flags.
"Don't know."
"But why ship flags?"
"They were there."
She doesn't understand. He doesn't explain.
Just keeps hanging them. Red ones. Yellow ones. Blue and white checkered. Each one means something in maritime code. Together they probably spell something. He doesn't know what.
Doesn't matter.
His apartment is full of them now. Hanging. Moving when he walks. Like being inside a harbor.
His son visits. Navy. Says: "Dad, those flags mean actual things."
"I know."
"Do you know what they're saying?"
"No."
"Want me to tell you?"
"No."
His son shrugs. Doesn't push it.
Marcus adds more flags. Green ones. Orange ones. Striped ones. They hang at different heights. Some touch his head when he walks. He ducks.
His sister says it's too much. He says okay.
Doesn't take any down.
Just adds more.
His granddaughter visits. She's six. Loves the flags. Runs under them. They brush her hair. She laughs.
"Grandpa, it's like a forest!"
"Yeah. A flag forest."
She spins. The flags move. She laughs more.
Good.
After she leaves, Marcus sits under the flags. Looks up. All the signals. All the messages. All meaningless to him.
But they mean something to someone. Somewhere a sailor knows what they're saying. Somewhere these patterns communicate. Survive. Guide ships home.
Here they just hang. Just take up space. Just be seen.
His daughter calls. Asks how he's doing. He says fine.
"Still hanging those flags?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Don't know. Just am."
She sighs. Says she'll visit next month.
Marcus hangs another flag. White with a blue square. No idea what it means.
Good.
His doctor asks how he's sleeping. Marcus says fine. He's lying. Can't sleep under all the flags. They move at night. Shadows shift. Like being in a boat.
He doesn't mind.
Hangs another flag. Yellow and red. Diagonal stripes.
Looks good.
Rita's scaffold is nine feet now. She had to cut a hole in the ceiling. Climbed into the attic. Extended the scaffold through.
Her landlord calls. She doesn't answer.
Keeps building.
Her son comes over. Sees the hole in the ceiling. The scaffold going through it.
"Mom."
"I know."
"You can't do this."
"Already did."
He looks upset. She doesn't blame him. It's a lot.
But the scaffold needed to go higher. The photos needed more space.
More people to remember. More faces to see.
She climbs into the attic. Hangs more photos. Her father's ship. Her mother's church. The house in Mississippi nobody's been to in forty years.
All of it up on purple pipes. All of it visible. All of it taking up space.
Her son leaves. Says he'll call.
Rita keeps building.
Marcus is out of ceiling space. Starts hanging flags from the walls. Thumb tacks. They hang vertical instead of horizontal.
Looks different. Still good.
His sister visits. Sees flags on the walls now too.
"Marcus."
"I know."
"This is excessive."
"Yeah."
"So stop."
"Can't."
She leaves. He hangs another flag. Blue with a white X.
Good.
His granddaughter visits again. Says: "More flags!"
"Yeah."
"Can I help?"
"Sure."
She picks a flag. Pink one. Hands it to him. He hangs it.
"Perfect," she says.
Yeah. It is.
Rita's landlord shows up. Sees the scaffold. Sees the hole in the ceiling.
"You're evicted."
"Okay."
"I'm serious."
"I know."
She doesn't take the scaffold down though. Just keeps building. Keeps hanging photos.
Her son says she can stay with him. She says maybe.
Doesn't move though. Just keeps building.
More pipes. More photos. More people taking up space.
Marcus's doctor says he should get out more. Marcus says he goes out.
"When?"
"Sometimes."
"How often?"
"Sometimes."
He doesn't go out much. Just stays under the flags. All the signals. All the messages.
All the ways to say: I'm here. See me. Remember me.
Rita builds.
Marcus hangs.
They don't know each other. Never will.
Just keep doing what they're doing.
Scaffold getting higher.
Flags getting more.
Taking up space. Making themselves visible.
That's about it.
That's what's happening.
