Free The Rent Collector by Camron Wright Page A

across nature’s sky. It’s now time that I must sleep.
     
     
    *****
     
    We sit quietly with our thoughts that drift and mingle with the nighttime sounds of the dump. We remember our lives in the province—but mostly we remember Aunty.
    “I miss Mother,” Narin finally says aloud.
    “I know. I miss her too.” I put my arm on my cousin’s shoulder, hoping to offer comfort.
    Narin’s mother, my aunt, passed away just two months after Narin arrived at the dump. Back then, since the family didn’t have a way to contact her, nearly three weeks passed before the news could be delivered from the province.
    “Is it literature?” she finally asks. “Is it what you are looking for?”
    “I don’t know for certain, but I think it feels like literature,” I reply. She seems pleased as I continue. “I am going to need to write it down. If I come back in the morning with a pencil and paper, do you think you could repeat it again slowly?”
    “Yes. But when you return, can I ask a favor?”
    “Certainly.”
    “Would you mind writing a second copy, one that I can have?”
    They are words she knows by heart and yet she wants something in hand—this must surely be literature. I squeeze Narin’s arm. “Thank you.”
    “For what?” she asks.
    “For helping me find my first piece of literature. Now, there is just one more problem.”
    “What’s that?”
    “I hope Sopeap agrees.”
     
    *****
     
    As my teacher arrives, she stumbles, and I presume she has been drinking, but I smell no alcohol.
    “Did you have a successful trip?” I ask.
    “It was more trying than I expected. But I am here and on time, so let’s get started.”
    For the first hour, Sopeap bluntly details the use of grammar. As she promised, it is clear and straightforward, usage that I grasp from speaking the language. While I prod her along, wanting to move the discussion forward, she purposely drags on as if to spite me.
    “Do you have any questions?” she finally asks. “If not, we can end.” She hesitates, waits, watches—and I consider that she may be toying with me.
    “I did my homework,” I tell her.
    “I thought you might have,” she answers. “Are you going to show me or just sit there grinning like a monkey?”
    I take out two copies of Narin’s poem and pass one to her.
    “Before we read it,” Sopeap says, “tell me its history.”
    I narrate Narin’s circumstance, her life in the province, the passing of her mother. I don’t know how much information Sopeap is asking for and so, after I ramble for longer than I should, I apologize and then wait for instructions.
    “Read it and I’ll follow along,” she says.
    While I want to be methodical and not mispronounce any of the words, I do my best to deliver them with the verse’s natural rhythm—to read it as Narin shared it. The sounds flow smoothly from my lips, and when I finish, Sopeap is quiet, even pensive.
    “Did you know,” she says, without revealing whether she likes it or not, “that poetry predates literacy?”
    “What does that mean?”
    “People recited poems before they could even read or write. They would repeat them aloud, hand them down orally in songs, legends, and stories—and this poem you have read was apparently passed along in the very same manner. You, Sang Ly, are likely the first person to ever write it down.”
    I consider the notion, touch my fingers to the page, and let them follow my scribbles, which now feel somehow special. Sopeap has not yet finished her inspection. As she reads it again, I watch the whisper of her lips, the moving of her eyes, and the rhythmic nodding of her head. Her fingers curl around the pages, embracing them, and I promise to read more diligently and with more passion from this moment forward.
    “Do you see it?” she asks.
    “See what?”
    “Look at the words, their order. Can you see the pattern in their structure? The last stanza repeats the subject order, but in reverse.”
    I hadn’t noticed. I feel