Tea is Better for You

The teapot whistled, waking Brian from his sleep. Ugh, tea in the morning. He needed a jolt to wake up, and if he drank tea and coffee he would be running to the bathroom all day. Brian’s wife said tea was better for him, so he would take the cup, kiss her goodbye and head to the drive thru for coffee.

On his way to the office, Brian pondered the heaviness in the air. There wasn’t a storm on the horizon – just a gray day, like the ones before it and the ones to come. Maybe it wasn’t the day. Perhaps the gray cloud hovered just inside Brian’s mind like the memories he couldn’t release.

“Oh, Brian, it’s your turn to read,” the teacher announced with a smirk.

Brian would stare at the page, “D-d-d-d o-o-o-gz arrrrraaaahh m-m-m-aaaanz b-b-b-esst friend!” Brian took a deep breath as the class roared with laughter. He thought he would pee his pants, so he jumped from his seat and rushed toward the door. Craig stuck out his foot, and Brian fell to the floor. The sudden collision released his bladder.

“Eeww! Gross!” was all he could hear as he lie on the white tiled floor unable to move.

Brian reached for his briefcase in the backseat and headed into the building where he worked the past eight years. He had moved up in the organization securing a position in management. He liked his job; his colleagues were great. But anytime he heard people talking and laughing outside his office, he knew for sure, they were making fun of him.

The same week as the “accident” in class, the freckle faced girl with the frizzy reddish brown mushroom hair, caught up with Brian on the walk home.

“They’re all jerks. There’s nothing wrong with stuttering,” she spat through braces and a lisp. Kelly was a close 2^nd to Brian on the list of kids to bully. He couldn’t fathom how the two of them together would help matters. So he ignored her, quickened his pace, and abruptly turned to cross the street.

“Hey, wait! Do you want to go to the dance?” Kelly yelled. Brian stopped in the middle of Livingston Avenue. He looked at Kelly and couldn’t pick out one thing about her he liked. He even enjoyed her turns at being tortured because it meant he got a small, but welcomed break.

“Sure,” he shrugged. Then Brian jumped out of the street just in time to miss on-coming traffic.

Brian was tripped twice on the dance floor, but the 2^nd time Kelly warned him and he played it off like it was a dance move; Kelly was shoved into the punch, the large bowl wobbled spilling onto her pink dress but Brian grabbed her arm before she crash landed into the table; Craig got on the mic and dedicated a song stuttering every syllable; and kids threw wadded up paper at Kelley that read “Most Likely to be Ugly.” All in all, it was a successful night for the two of them. Both had experienced much worse on their own, and this was the first time either had danced in public.

Kelly now wore a full head of convincing Brazilian weave, the braces were gone, the freckles were covered flawlessly by cosmetics, and she only lisped at Brian’s request. Brian stopped stuttering, and they got married after college. Kelly never mentioned the day Brian peed his pants in class; but every morning, she offered him tea.

Where My Girls At?

I like to jog in the summer sun on the manufactured pathway mostly of concrete that occasionally gives way to sandy pebbles that cushion my step. The paths follow the hills and knolls, valleys and peaks causing prayer to breakout mid stride. My niece joined me on one of my jaunts and assured me that there were no strides, only shuffles. The Auntie Shuffle. We never acknowledged that we were racing, but she did acknowledge that I had won; assuredly as the tortoise beat the hare. This was my path. Whose path? Auntie’s path.

From 2009 - 2011, I was consistently running, jogging, okay, shuffling at least four times a week, except during the winter (I’m dormant during cold air months). I even changed my diet and watched calories carefully counting them one by one while they awaited clearance. I lost a lot of weight. My skirts got shorter, my shirts shrunk to child size and local bars became familiar haunts. I may have hit send on some risqué selfies. I may have said “Yes, We Can!” more times than an Obama rally. I once wore my ten-year-old daughter’s gingham plaid shorts with a nostalgic tee of Linus and Snoopy to an adult nightclub. The thing about it is, I knew in the midst of all these “choices” that they were bad, but skinny me said, “IDGAF.”

Worse than my questionable wardrobe, was the sheer size of my head. Medium me has a medium sized head; little me has a Sasquatchian sized dome. Whenever I looked in the mirror, I became angered. How come nobody told me my noggin was the size of intergalactic spaceship? And that wasn’t even the kicker. All in all, if I could go back to the size I was in 2010 when people were fawning all over my weight loss, I wouldn’t. I could come to grips with my age, and just say no to poom poom shorts; I could even deal with being a walking bobble head; but it’s my breasts that make me lose all desire to be a weight that would make a model only fast for a fortnight.

I have a body that gains and loses weight proportionately. I would love to be considered slim thick, but I’m afraid my only options are slim or thick. I did a lot of squats to hang onto my ghetto bootie, but there was no exercise that I could do to hang onto the jugs that once adorned my chest. I recalled getting slender in college because I did a lot of walking. The campus was large (biggest school in North America large), at age 23 my metabolism was still affable, it was pre-K.I.D.S., and the pounds effortlessly melted away. I didn’t mind at all being on the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Flat perky breasts are a win in my book. So I had no idea that at age 43, when I vowed to get in shape and took decided measure to do so, that my chest wouldn’t flatten or even shrink; but instead deflate like sad balloons languishing after the party is long over and the last guest has been ushered into the dawn. You know the balloons that you cannot pop? You squeeze them, then try stomping them, but to no avail. So you just put them in the trash as the last scintilla of helium cries freedom. Yes, that was me. Hot MILF with teats. I refuse to relive that singular horror ever again in life. So, if I ever lose a substantial amount of weight again, I will have a substantial amount of money to get a breast lift.

Me in the Middle - On the Committee in the 90's

See, all the while, I was still a fat girl that lived inside a curvy girl’s body that somehow had gotten thin. My goal was to lose enough weight, so I could binge eat deserts. I lost 50 lbs., I binge ate desserts, winter came (I’m dormant during cold air months), and I gained most of the weight back. I know I didn’t think my strategy all the way through. But I’m glad to be back; ample behind and bust in tow. I missed me, all of me with the ever maturing wardrobe and the human sized head. I will probably never jog again at a stride or even at an Auntie Shuffle. Not because I think I am the perfect size – I’m not. My BMI says I’m overweight and my stomach is in agreement. But now I want to lose the all American 10 – 15 lbs. I no longer want to fit my tween’s jeans, and at age 46, I think walking into the summer sun at a brisk pace will suffice. I recently went to have a mammogram, and the staff kept calling me young and my breast tissue dense. My girls are back! Contextually, speaking that is. Ah, the joys of being middle aged.

Okay, Content, Balanced and Happy

Sylvia watched intently as her husband played the piano. Her eyes were a much better gauge than her ears when it came to Robert's performances. They all sounded great to her, but his perception was all in his hazel eyes. They would light up, flash brightly and dart to and fro, if he was pleased. If he was disappointed, his eyes would glare ferociously through the keys as if it was all he could do to recall where his fingers should tap next. Tonight was a triumph! The excitement of the crowd was palatable, roses were strewn across the wooden planks of the stage; Sylvia tried unsuccessfully to count them between the watchful glances of Robert's dancing eyes. He would be up all night. He was always up all night. But on good nights he wanted company. On bad nights, he wanted to be alone to beseech the sun. Why, how could you leave me so? The sun would console him with a ray of light and in a decided fashion reprimand him for still being up and hurry him off to sleep the day away. 

Sylvia would need coffee tonight. If she dozed off, Robert would nudge her gently, "Are you sleep?" as if they were teenagers who made a pact to stay up until dawn trolling social media, raiding the fridge, and having experimental sex. 

"No, no, I'm up my love," Sylvia would reach for him, "I'm here," and kiss his countenance back to security. Sylvia wasn't 100% sure Robert even enjoyed performing anymore. "You know you don't owe anything to anyone. We don't need the money," she would urge.

"I know my love. Thank you for being so sweet. It's really not that bad, though. My fans give me energy; they remind me that I'm alive: a rocker with a classical shtick," Robert would laugh at his favorite motto.

Sylvia continued, "But Robert, you get so manic, and the crash is always so hard. I think the medicine is helpful." 

"Look, even if I didn't perform, I wouldn't allow myself to be drugged and out of it for the rest of my days. I don't want to be pleasant. Pleasant is for luncheons. I don't eat lunch." 

"I don't want you to be pleasant; I want you to be okay. Content. Balanced. Happy," Sylvia's words sounded foreign even to her as they trickled off her tongue.

Sylvia could have sworn there was a time when Robert was happy. It was impossible that he had always been such a brooding child. She would not have married him, would she? They had been together nineteen years and Sylvia loved Robert more today than she had the day they exchanged vows, but she was exhausted. If he was up, he could go weeks without sleeping. He would literally, write, play, practice, and perform for days on end. If he was down, his body would curl in on itself. At night, she would just rap her form around his because she could not penetrate his being.

Some nights she would cry with him, others she would swear under her breadth just audible enough for him to glean, if he ever did care to listen. But most nights she would lie next to him awaiting marching orders. I'm cold; it’s too hot; I'm hungry; I feel sick; I can't sleep; I can't wake up. It took time but now she understood each code. She would be up and down three/four times a night adjusting the temperature, making sandwiches, mixing cocktails, escorting him to the restroom to purge or just pee and bringing him chamomile tea to help him relax or caffeine to help him wake. 

Then out of nowhere Robert would show up. Sylvia would awake to the smell of coffee, orange juice, omelets and toast. Robert would bring her breakfast in bed, run her a hot bath and massage her feet with oil.

"Wow, you are so beautiful in the morning. God blessed me with an angel," he would announce to the world through their condominium walls as he wiped a single tear. Sylvia and Robert would make love, he would prepare her favorite foods, they'd watch obscure movies, and most of all he would be attentive. He would listen to her words, get lost in her brown eyes, and attend to her every whim. On rare occasions he would even go out; shopping, dancing, dinner parties, visiting family, errands. You name it.

In the beginning Sylvia loved these days that would peak through the clouds and emerge as tangible evidence of good times and better memories. But as the years stuttered, jerked, and grind to a halt resentment anxiously awaited its turn. I better enjoy this while it lasts. No telling the next time he will press his body instinctively against mine, walk with me in the park, wash a dish or even brush his teeth. And why is it always when I am ready to leave, the letter written, apologies rehearsed? 

Hate was next in line, but thankfully it never got its full turn. Ten years into the marriage, Robert had a concert one evening and Sylvia watched as his stony eyes stared intently at every press of each key. The crowd was amazed, roses scattered across the wooden boards, and even Sylvia would have floated on each note if her ears were given permission to listen, but only her eyes watched.

Robert would only give stark one word answers in response to Sylvia’s attempts to be reassuring, “The crowd loved you. The sound was the best I’ve heard in a long time. Your timing was impeccable.” Doors to the car, apartment, restroom and guestroom would slam. Early in the marriage, Sylvia would try to get him to come around, but he made it painfully clear that he wanted/needed to be alone. It was the only time he ever yelled at Sylvia. She had already decided on this particular evening, if her husband's eyes didn't shine brightly off into the distance, she wouldn't say a damn thing to Robert, she would ignore his brooding, and enjoy an evening to herself. Robert was quiet and all the doors slammed on cue. 

Sylvia planned to wash and deep condition her thick, kinky locs, use the mani/pedi system that was still new in the box, marathon watch "The Real Housewives of Atlanta", and binge eat whatever sweet treats would fit in her gut. Oh, and she had a good mind to compose a five page "Dear John" letter. But despite all her preparation, she sat and thought about Robert. She gave considerable thought to Tom, the butcher at the plaza. How his eyes would light up whenever she walked in. 

"I need something special tonight," Sylvia would announce to the market and not just the man behind the counter.

"Why yes, Mrs. Luttrelle. I read in the paper about the concert tomorrow night, so I already have a special cut of lean roast ready. I know Mr. Luttrelle loves his turkey sliced thicker, so I'm going to carve that for you now,” Tom paused and added with sincerity, “Tell him I said, hello."

"Definitely, Tom, I will. Robert is always so grateful for the special attention you give to his discriminating palate,” Mrs. Lutrelle lied. "I'm sure he will probably be with me next time I come out," her voice cracked on the words "be with me" and she cleared her throat. 

"Oh, no I understand. He is a busy, important man. Jet setting across the country, entertaining the masses. I'll see him one of these days, I’m sure." Robert was world renown among the classical sect and that made Sylvia somewhat of a local celebrity in the small town where they lived. 

She thought about La’Bel, the boutique where she bought her gowns for his performances.

"Oh, Mrs. Luttrelle, I'm so glad you are here! You know we saw you in the blogs, and you were wearing a redo. Beautiful yes, but you’re kind of a big deal and represent our brand, as well,” Claire, the shop owner, spoke with urgency in her voice. “I have a few dresses already pulled for you in the back - straight off the runway! Amber, go get the dresses for Mrs. Luttrelle," She shooed her intern toward the back. 

Sylvia smiled broadly, "Yes, you're right.  I am kind of a big deal." The ladies both laughed. 

“And where is Mr. Luttrelle?” Amber chimed in a little too eager as she emerged with a rack of dresses. Sylvia watched in horror as she pushed in enough dresses to adorn a whole audience at the opera. Sylvia would pick out two or three without trying them on and be on her way.

“He’s busy preparing for Saturday night’s show.” Robert was actually rolled up in a ball on the walk-in closet floor two shots of whiskey away from a coma.  

When Robert shopped with Sylvia, it was always a bigger, better production. Tom insisted he try an elaborate tray of twenty new meats sliced so thin that they melted in your mouth before you could chew, and then he would order a thick cut of turkey.

"How can meats be new?" Robert would question Sylvia under his breath, and they would snicker - both of their eyes sparkling brightly. 

The ladies at Boutique La’Bel would pull out bottles of champagne and chocolate covered strawberries just for Robert, while Sylvia modeled dresses for what seemed to her hours. As more drinks were poured, the dresses would get shorter, neck lines lower and his hands freer. It was reminiscent of the early days, when all of her ensembles were deemed “inappropriate” for polite company.

"We'll take them all! Some for the public and some for the private show," Robert would declare whimsically. Sylvia would kick her leg up high, spin round, or bend low for everyone to get a peak. 

Sylvia also thought about rubbing Robert's back, cheering him on to pee, or sponge bathing him when the bed sheets began to reek.

Robert hadn't changed. It was Sylvia who had changed. She got out of the bed and walked passed the mani/pedi system still in the box; the shampoo and conditioner that guaranteed thick and shiny twenty something ringlets on middle aged women's hair; the television ready to deliver drama and more drama; and the bejeweled floor length gown she had dazzled in just hours earlier. Downstairs, she opened the fridge and pulled out the meat still wrapped in white deli paper. She made a sandwich fit for a king or a rocker with a classical shtick. Sylvia headed back upstairs and stopped at the guest room door and sat down. She scarfed down the sandwich and a pickle and drank a bottle of sparkling water. She burped long and loud and then listened intently for any movement behind the door.

Her last thoughts before dozing off to sleep were the early days in their marriage - when Sylvia would cuss out Robert’s fans if they were too flirtatious or the vodka had won the night. When she would fall asleep at the symphony, and he would assure her it was okay. "Just try to stay awake next time because the optics aren't good," he'd urge in a delicate tone. Sylvia remembered how Robert defended her when his mother called her a tramp, and a tear rolled down her cheek when she recalled how he had forgiven her when the pictures surfaced of her affair with the violinist. "He's not even the first chair," Robert chided.

She longed for the man behind the drywall who was probably just sitting wide awake waiting on the sun to promise him it was okay to rest his tired hazel eyes. She would never leave, hand him one of those stupid letters, or allow hate to creep in her spirit. That night even resentment died a slow but necessary death.

The next morning, Robert found Sylvia sleep on the floor in front of their guestroom door. He picked her up and carried her to bed. He cleared the dishes in the hallway and went down to cook breakfast. Sylvia awoke to see Robert bright as the morning sun. She knew he would probably need a day to sleep, but by the look of things this mood would probably last a full week at least. Sylvia learned to appreciate all of him, but this was the Robert she could show off in public. It would be a great time to visit with Tom, see the ladies at La’Bel and even spend a day with his mother. She was getting older and more forgetful. Thank God. 

Sylvia sat up and leaned against the pillows. Robert sat the tray down over her lap with a glass of orange juice and a breakfast fit for an angel married to a rocker with a classical shtick. "Oh, thank you, Love," Sylvia chimed childlike. It was her turn to be spoiled. Robert reached over and grabbed the pill organizer that sat on Sylvia’s bedside table. He opened the dispenser that read Sunday, and handed Sylvia her orange juice, so she could wash down okay, content, balanced and happy.

The Dandelion House

Dandelions are a child's first flower; abundant, brilliant, sunshine sprouting past the earth. "You can't catch me, you can't catch me," they chant in unison like the children who pick them one by one. Dandelions make up a mother's first spring bouquet, as both mother and child delight in the wonder of God's creation and 1st love. "Mommy, this is for you." 

As the years go by and the heads of dandelion's get popped off in childhood rituals that mimic maternity and childbirth, somewhere in the midst of all the magic, the secret is shared. But not in a whisper, like any respectable secret is told, no nothing hushed or considerate about its spread. "Stop picking those things, they're weeds." Weeds? Now, they no longer convey sunshine, spring or new births. The white wispy wishes so fun to blow through the air have turned into poisoned truths. 

But how do you tell a dandelion; a little black girl birthed special by Mother Earth herself to stop emerging, stop dancing with breezy blue skies, stop being easy on sunny summer days. Quit playing, laughing, enjoying life, you ugly; a weed, unwanted with poisoned seed. Naw, the dandelion just gonna keep growing until you forced to pick it up and see the butter reflected on your chin. 

I know firsthand bout sadness. In fact me and sadness take long walks together arm and arm down winding paths through nature's ravines. When we have to be a part for more than a week or two, we write five page long love letters, the kind schoolgirl's put harts on to make schoolboy's blush. All written out on hand-painted stationery with endless green meadows; sans the dandelions, chirping birds make a fit replacement. Yes, the birds sing each lyric painstakingly composed to convey - sadness and I will never part. 

I'm sure we just close friends and not real lovers. We got separate rooms, although whenever she can't sleep, she come to my room and keep me up as long as she please, rustling around and stealing the covers, a few times up all night with tears streaming down her face. I do my best to comfort her, but really, I wish she'd just go back to her own room and leave me be. We break up every so often. I think the longest she staid gone was six months. 

"Did you miss me?" is always her first words clamoring through the door, out of breath and perspiring like she traveled land and sea to get back to me. I just pretend I don't see, hear or even know she back - go on bout my business. But I guess in a way I do miss her. She real familiar like, and I ain't made room for nothing/nobody else.

I would like to marry an artist; a painter to be precise. Someone who specializes in abstract works but performs a miraculous feat in realism - at least once a year. So I can be secure in the fact that his genius is genius. Okay, I know this is asking a lot, but someone who is appreciated, celebrated, compensated while living. 

I would be his wife. Conservative in comparison - his eccentricity would over shadow my quirks. I'd be safe and keep him covered. He wouldn't ask much of me at all because the magic would reside inside his head and be interpreted through his hands. Whenever he comes out to inhale something other than paint fumes, I'd be the first one he'd see applauding his brilliance, framing and hanging his masterpieces for all to admire. He would never witness the price tags and sold stickers I brandish with delight while he's abracadabra-ing our existence. Only I would never sell the ones of me, the miraculous feats in realism. 

He lives in his head, and I live just outside in an art gallery of historic proportions; big and modern, some fancy architectural creation. We got loyal people too, staff - folk to cook, keep the children, keep us safe from intruders, maids. Only we can't seem to keep a gardener. They get so mad at all the weeds on the property; say it reflects badly on their craft, like they an artist or something too. But my husband love him some dandelions; say they his muse.

The Best Night of Taylor’s Life

Taylor sat still while her makeup was being applied. She felt like a real celebrity. Hair, wardrobe, makeup, mani/pedi you name it; she was being primped and pampered for what would be the best night of her life. Prom. Her dress was still hanging on the door. She admired the sequined bodice that flared into a beautiful ball gown. Yellow. Taylor scanned her closet its door ajar and saw nothing yellow. Her eyes perused the floor that had as many clothes strewn across it as were hung. One lemon tank top that she never wore peeked out from the corner. Taylor looked horrible in yellow. But after trying on at least thirty dresses, at what felt like as many stores, this was definitely the one. Well, the only affordable one. There were other dresses, but before she could reach out and brush her hand against the boning of their frame, her mother had the tag in her grasp and announced “No, this is not a dress for someone with a baby.” Taylor heard that every day of her pregnancy and into the first 5 months of her daughter, Drema’s life. No, that makeup, salon, shoe, clutch, limo, lip gloss, hair moisturizer, toothpaste, cereal is not for someone with a baby. Taylor was amazed that her mother could make the same statement, with the same inflection, and maintain the same grave intent without breaking into laughter. Taylor and her twin sister, Abby, stood out of her sight and mimicked her exact words.

“What’s funny?” her mother’s voice raised like a hand ready to swat. 

“Nothing, Momma.” Both girls assured her as Taylor pulled her to the clearance rack with the yellow dress.

Abby did Taylor’s nape length hair with a small flat iron that pressed through thin wefts. The two girls went to the drug store the night before and purchased a manicure and pedicure system. They stayed up all night doing their nails and toes, laughing about prom shopping, practicing dance moves and attending to Taylor’s baby, Drema. Makeup was the finishing step and Taylor’s, cousin Brandi, did it for free. They would take her boyfriend Jasper’s car. Taylor looked at her phone, it was 6:30 PM. Prom started at 7:30 PM. She reviewed everything she still needed to do before the official kick off of the best night of her life. Finish makeup, put dress and shoes on, feed baby, put her to sleep. The knock on the door would come soon and Taylor could feel her scalp tingle in preparation for a full blown flop sweat. But before she could panic, her spinning mind was interrupted.

“Oh, Taylor, you look stunning,” Brandi crooned. “Wait!” she grabbed her shoulders to stop her from turning to the mirror. “Don’t look until you put on your dress.” Brandi’s sentiments were nuanced with the magic of make-believe.

“Okay!” Taylor’s exuberance interrupted the surreal, and she jumped out the chair and did a high knee half jog half jump step with excitement. She grabbed the dress hanging on the door and headed to the bathroom but the door was shut and she could see the light coming from underneath - occupied. Taylor stayed in the hallway. There was plenty of space and Taylor thought she may have even felt a breeze. She took off her sweats, top and bra. Brandi walked into the hallway and put a towel over her head to protect her pixie hairdo and safeguard the ball gown from her painted guise.

“Lift your arms straight up.” Brandi insisted. Brandi got the dress over her arms and began to pull from the bottom. Taylor squirmed back and forth, side to side until her face was free, then arms and while Brandi pulled, Taylor pushed down from the top until the gown was in place. Both ladies took a deep breath.

Taylor spun around, “Zip me!” If only it was that easy. The gulf was wide. Brandi said a prayer under her breadth.

When the zipper finally reached the top, Brandi called out, “Won’t He do it?”

“Yes, He Will”, Brandi responded. 

“Hey Glory!” The girls went into a mini-church shout.

Drema must have known her mother was all ready, because right before Brandi could guide Taylor’s foot into the left shoe, they heard a small cry.

“These shoes are the bomb, Girl.” Brandi spoke while still admiring the rhinestone studded heels. All her accoutrement was on point, but the shoes were designer, and probably cost more than everything else put together.

“Yes, aren’t they nice? They’re Abby’s from last year’s prom. I love them.” Taylor responded matter-of-factly.

“Okay, now look.” Brandi turned Taylor around to the full length mirror that leaned against the wall. “I’ll go get the baby.”

Taylor looked in the mirror and she almost couldn’t believe her own eyes. She looked like a princess. “I am a princess.” She affirmed.

Brandi had the baby in her arms and tears in her eyes. “Yes, you are a princess. But girl I gotta go.” She put the burping towel over Taylor’s shoulder and handed her Drema. Brandi loved her little cousin but she wasn’t real big on babies. They made her nervous. They gave each other air kisses and Brandi let herself out.

“Okay, clutch, lipstick, cash, door key…” Taylor said each word in an animated voice as if she were telling Drema a long ago fairytale as she dropped each item in the satin purse. She started for the stairs and then turned “Oh, shawl. That’s right my little snugum wugum, shawl.” She repeated in a sing-songy voice.

Brandi walked slowly down the staircase, careful not to drop shawl, bag or baby. If she tripped in the stilettos that she was not accustomed to wearing all would be lost, so she called on the name of Jesus grateful for each step. Taylor put Drema in her play seat and went to the kitchen to warm a bottle of breast milk. It took three days for Taylor to pump and properly store enough milk for this evening. Before she sat down to feed Drema she looked out the window. No passing cars. She grabbed her clutch to look at her phone and check the time. Urgh! She realized she left her phone upstairs. She took a deep breath and fed Drema. She anticipated a knock on the door any moment. Drema was fed, burped and rocked back to sleep and still Taylor did not hear any music outside, a car pull up or a knock at the door. It was 7:30 PM. Her phone rang and her heart sank. She did not want to chance the steps again in stilettos nor did she feel the urgency to kick off her heals and make a run for it. There wasn’t anyone she wanted to speak to on the phone. As soon as her cell stopped playing the ring tone for India Arie’s “Can I Walk with You” another phone atop the steps started playing K-Ci and JoJo’s “This is the Day”.

She tried not to listen, but couldn’t help but hear every word of the one-sided conversation. The voice feigned understanding. “Oh, no that happens. You can only do what you can do. No, she won’t be mad. Thank you for calling. Letting us know.”

Taylor stared at the steps, the same steps, she had called out to Jesus twelve times just minutes before, and a tear rolled down her face. This could not be happening. Her sister, Abby, was going to prom the 2^nd year in a row, Taylor wouldn’t even make one – her senior prom. Embarrassed by the tears that were no longer taking turns dropping one by one, but now puddling over her beautiful makeup, and clearing away her princess façade, Taylor stared out of the window and braced herself on the sill as she listened to the creak of all twelve steps.

“Hey, Babe.” The voice was warm with consolation. Taylor turned to see Jasper and her emotions mixed. He was so handsome in the black suit they had found at the Thrift Store, and his new vest and bowtie looked like a splash of sunshine straight from Taylor's dress. Jasper took Taylor in his arms. “The baby sitter canceled.”

“Yeah, I heard you talking. This was so stupid anyway. I’m sorry for taking you through all of this.”

“No, this is a very special day for you, for us. I’m sorry it didn’t work as planned, but you can still go. I’ll stay here with Drema.” Jasper tried to wipe the smudged mascara from her face. “You look beautiful, gorgeous, banging!” He spun her around. “You are a Princess and I am the luckiest frog in the world.”

Taylor thought about taking Jasper’s car and heading to prom. Teen mom shows up to Prom without a date. Everyone at school was already talking about her. Goody two-shoes is having a baby. No one believed that she and Jasper were really getting married. Even Abby acted funny sometimes around her friends – the cool clique. Showing up alone would just make her life worse. Then she thought about calling her mom. They didn’t live that far, but the only thing her mom ever said more than “That [insert item here] is not for someone with a baby,” was “You should name the baby Drema ‘I Don’t Get to Go’ Miller”. Nobody told you to lay up and have an “I don’t get to go.” Mhm, that’s what happens when you have an “I don’t get to go.” Taylor could not take her mother tonight.

“No, I want to stay here with the two of you.” Taylor’s faux enthusiasm diminished with each syllable. Taylor looked over at Drema and she was wearing yellow too. That is where the golden hue came from. Drema wore yellow 90% of the time and her nursery was decorated from top to bottom with yellow blankets, drapes, lamps and area rug. When Taylor’s mother found out she was pregnant, she insisted that they be prepared as early as possible even before they knew the sex, so everything was yellow. Taylor’s mom had spent a mint on that one room in their project apartment. 

Yellow; it was meant to be. Jasper and Taylor listened to music, exchanged corsage and boutonniere, took selfies, ate peanut butter crackers, drank tap water on ice and did all of the dances that Taylor had been practicing. Drema drank the breast milk her mother had worked so hard to express from a bottle, cooed in her hand embroidered bassinet, and swayed the night away with her mother and father. When daughters become mothers, mothers become grandmothers. The simple epiphany made Taylor smile. She looked into her fiancés big brown eyes and over at Drema “I Don’t Get to Go” Miller snuggled in his arms. Taylor was right; this was the best night of her life.

You Cannot Escape It

Jeremy’s shoes were made of fabric, so even though he tried hard to avoid the melted snow on the way to school, water still seeped through. School was an escape from home and home was an escape from school. Home was a mess. Jerry’s Mom didn’t have the energy to keep up, and she had even less energy to keep after the kids to keep up. So it was a free for all of dirty dishes, piles of clothes everywhere but in the closet, and papers, magazines and books strewn across surfaces unknown. They would have gotten used to it, settled in good if it weren’t for the occasional knock on the door that threatened to reveal their dirty secret, and the mice that reminded them they really needed to do better.

So school was a welcome respite. Jerry was the star of the football team, very popular with the ladies, and extremely intelligent. Jerry thought he was smarter than all of his peers and most of his teachers, so he was always up for a debate. As the teachers became more and more frustrated trying to get back on task, they would always give in, give up or just plain give out; Mr. Sanders went on leave never to return. It was rumored he had a stroke. Whenever a teacher was at their wits end the class would erupt, “Jeeerrrryy!” high fiving each other all around.

He did genuinely believe he was smarter than everyone else, but he also felt they were just plain stupid; dull. He was a big fish in a small pond and he welcomed the bell’s release at the end of each day. Today the school had a stench worse than usual. It always smelled bad to Jerry – stale people, stale air, and stale lessons. But today, the air almost made him angry. When he got to Mrs. Renner's class, he challenged her on her 1^st statement and wouldn’t let up until she left out the room in tears; in gym he clotheslined a kid for no reason; and at lunch he threw his whole tray of food away right after punching in his free lunch number. “This food’s disgusting. Ew, I can’t take the smell of this place!” he lashed out to anyone within earshot. No one disciplined Jerry because he was the star of the only thing the small town had going for it.

The last bell rang and Jerry was looking forward to fresh air, and walking the new girl, Lisa, home.  Jerry allowed his feet to get wet and watched the white gusts of air as he exhaled in and out. The smell was almost gone. They talked about where she was from and whether or not she liked Ohio. Jerry’s hoodie proved thin and the cold air became less welcomed. He shoved his hands down in his jean pockets and felt something furry. The texture reminded him of something. He turned to Lisa and apologized, “My bad, I just remembered something. I have to go.” Jerry took off. He ran the whole 2 ½ miles home with the stench, the dead mouse, and the shock of humility still in his pants. 

Birth Days

Massa came out, wrapped his hands around Olivia’s hair and pulled. She followed neck churned in an ungodly fashion. All the slaves on the plantation stopped for a moment of prayer. There was no movement besides Becka tearing through the field screaming, “No, Massa, no! Don’t take my baby way, please!”

But she was afar off and by time she had reached the spot where the little girl’s hair was wrenched, Massa was in the shack behind the main house. The other women gathered round Becka and told her everything was gonna be alright. They was lyin’ of course. But they didn’t have any vocabulary beyond a lie and a truth, and this was Becka’s first time experiencing something worse than her own rape.

Massa emerged and went back inside the main house for a cool glass of lemonade.

Becka and the women pushed open the door of the shack and saw Olivia rolled in a ball so many times after that day it seemed to be deja vu. They would rap her in a blanket and carry her back to the slave quarters. The women would clean the girl up best they could, finding unsoiled patchwork scraps to dress any exposed part, softly brushing the long coils into two pig tails that spoke loudly; I AM A CHILD.

But that was a lie too. Becka wiped away tears where there were none, and said, “Hush now, chile, Mommas here,” to whimpers non-existent. In the midst of Becka’s prayers, Olivia would just get up and walk out to finish her chores.

Becka didn’t get dandelion bouquets, the chance to kiss booboos on scraped knees, or a warm hug after singing a lullaby. Becka tried hard to bring back the girl who giggled in her sleep, hummed non-stop, and hung close to the other girls, eyes shut tight, beseeching God, when Massa came out. Now she could stare the Devil down.

Becka never understood how Martha could mutter under her breadth, “Killa, killa dead,” at the site of her newborn. Some said she evil. Others said she virtuous.

The elders say, “Naw, she just be a mother.”

Olivia was early delivering. Her eyes lit wide with hope, she grabbed her Momma’s hand and wouldn’t let go, “Pray, Momma, pray.” But Becka couldn’t stop crying long enough to say one single word to Jesus. Crying cause the feeling of being a mother after three years rushed in on her all at once; crying for all the tears Olivia couldn’t shed herself. The women smacked the baby on the behind and it wailed nicely.

“Hell, naw!” Olivia spat venom when the women tried to take the baby off to get cleaned and wrapped up. The women turned back with the baby so Olivia could see what she and her Daddy had created. Straightaway, the life seeped from Olivia’s small frame. The infant looked healthy, but only time would tell.

The women exhaled, and turned back to get the baby cleaned, but Becka stopped them this time. Two days later, Becka wrapped the stillborn in the pretty blue quilt Olivia had scrapped together. She laid her in the box with her Momma.

The elders say, “She just be a grandmother.”