It's strange seeing a woman in her thirties playing with dolls. I remember how my cousin gave the nurse a feral look when being prompted to take her medication, only to oblige sweetly and delicately. She wasn't like most nuts and crazies, Samantha. She seemed to keep a solid(more) bit of lucidity to her at all times despite the so-called paranoid schizophrenia. Today is a Sunday and I am watching her pick apart the handful of grapes on her plate. She speaks to the grapes, gives them funny names, and does funny voices.
I am enraptured by childlike beauty and so filled with empathy that my eyes want to weep. There is a cleanliness and purity that I am witnessing that I have rarely, if ever, seen before - even in young children.
Her favorite movie is Pulp Fiction. One grape is Samuel L. Jackson and the other is John Travolta. Samantha, my thirty-two year old cousin, is fiercely reenact ing a scene and reciting a bible verse in Ebonics. She holds one grape firmly.
She was always obsessed with the movie. She must have found some wisdom of great value for her to be so hell bent on it. You could hardly speak to her about anything else before she shut herself off. What exactly populates her little world, I wonder? My cousin's mind, to me, is like a window to another universe. A wholly different one from our own where the syntax and grammar of rational thinking has no place.
"It's a good movie, but I never really understood what was in that briefcase," I say.
She gives me a quick, wild look and spreads her hands as if to mimic the opening of a box. She smiles at me in a cartoonish way.