Mommas Prayer

We could hear my mother praying all day. She would walk through the house saying, "Lord Jesus help me on the mission". Was she going anywhere? Was anything out of the ordinary happening that particular day? No! She would just say it, maybe even out of habit.

As I age I find myself becoming her. Maybe not such a bad thing, but I would rather put the process off for another 10 or more years. This doesn't seem to be the case. As the days roll on I find myself saying the same prayer. Praying also that He hears my feeble plea like he did hers.

We lived next door to the church. We would go to prayer meeting and they would sing "Pass Me Not" and the deacons would pray. My daddy could pray a prayer. The words from the hymn fell on my mind today. But I called home for their prayers just in case.

Blue Sky

On the way home the sky was child like blue. Blue enough to make you dream. Blue enough to make you remember when the days seemed long and Christmas even further away. When the neighborhood was full of laughter. Children were able to roam the streets. The sound of the ice cream truck caused a frenzy for the coins underneath the sofa cushions. The sound of the screeching screen doors announced the mothers calling their children in. Days like this made you wish the sun never had to leave. Made you regret growing up.

Press -n- Curl

Saturday was "hair day". The process was long and brutal. Momma would wash our hair and let it air dry and by late Saturday afternoon she would press it out with the hot comb. Oh, it was hot! She would put it on the stove let it heat up and pull out the royal crown hair grease. Believe me you sat still until she was done. But the joy of wearing a bang and having "straight hair" was worth the pain. I would go to bed wearing the pink sponge roller excited about having some of my hair down for Sunday morning. And when I was older she would let me wear a bang in the front and some hanging down in the back.

Over the years I've worn weaves, wigs, braids, ponytails-- worn mine short and long and any style the lady at the salon could do to make me beautiful. I have sat with my scalp on fire from chemicals for "straight hair". Now, it's short. And sometimes I wear a "wash and go". Air dried like I would on Saturday and if I would have known then what I know now I would have saved myself the torture. People have said, "girl that's hot", "you look so sophisticated", "you look stunning". But thirty years ago on a Saturday afternoon sitting in the kitchen underneath the heat of the comb it was just "nappy". Us clay colored girls have come a long way.

Unknown Riches

We were all poor and didn't know it. We all lived in the hood. We all ate beans and cornbread and went to church on Sunday. We all had floor model televisions and hung our clothes on the line. We all had to be home before the street lights came on and we all wore hammy (hand me downs--for the northerners)downs.

We all had a place to belong. We all knew every ones name--even the crazy man-woman who lived in the shanty. We all played jacks and jumped rope. We all made mud pies and ate honey suckles from the bushes. We all climbed the trees.

We all roamed and went trick or treat. We all lived in houses with plastic on the windows to keep in the heat and plugged them in with box fans to let it escape. We all had grandmas and papas that lived around the corner.

We all married, went to school, joined the Army and moved away. Now we all go back and cry over the shacks we left behind and the streets once filled with laughter.

Nine

The summer always ended when it was time for my birthday. There aren't too many I hold on to. Except for the day he came home with the light blue bicycle. I'll always remember the last of summers wind on my face.

Penny Candy

Jars full of cookies and candy. I always made him search for a red one. The butter cookies I slid on my fingers. The twinkies and the honey buns. I can't forget the wind mill cookies. I wanted them when I was grown and my belly filled with my son. My daddy mailed them to me along with money for ice cream.

The First Day of School

I leaped from the car with no idea where I was going. There was a hopscotch drawn on the sidewalk. I couldn't resist the only thing familiar. I had learned my alphabet already and had printed them in the dirt on the side of the house, my numbers too. I knew I would be fine, my daddy worked down the street.

Switches

The music the screen door played when she, my grandmother, went to go get it was like the music in a cheap horror film. But the terror she gave was real. She never picked a bad one. She could pick one clean it seemed in a matter of seconds.

My mind would race for a plan. A plan to escape or even hide. To disappear. To take back whatever I did or didn't do. Soon she would be on me. And the sting of my legs picked by the salt in my tears.

Sawyer Street

For some reason I remember when they paved the road. When we waded in the water from the flood. In the front room was a red velvet couch and a red rose bush grew in front of the big window.

The place past the field would hold the sun in the evening. And when the wind was angry its fury would paint the sky sienna brown. From the porch the distance seemed far away to a little girls eyes.

Too far to imagine going past the humming distant highway, too far to imagine eyes to melt my heart like the evening sun.

Peach Trees

Memories of old.
They're in my mind wandering, pretending to be asleep.
Pretending they don't have a hold.
Like still waters they run deep.

Memories of times spent climbing the peach tree.

Memories of old.
They stir at the oddest times
Stirring to make me want to pull them out of the folds.
Pull them out of mind look at them line by line.

Memories of times spent climbing the peach tree.

Memories of old.
Life so simple standing on top of the world.
Standing free and bold.
Clay colored girls, promising to marry rich men.
Promising to always be friends
Promising to be more than what we could see.

Memories of times spent climbing the peach tree.