Sunday Best

Sunday Best

by T.D Carter

As I sit here and reminisce, I can see myself vividly—like a lucid dream—at five years old. The image is so clear and real, I can still smell the bergamot grease in my freshly pressed hair. My golden-brown skin shines like a new copper penny, slick with coconut butter and Vaseline. The smells bring it all back, and I close my eyes as I remember that hot, humid, sticky Sunday morning.

My Aunt Mae is in the kitchen cooking breakfast. I can smell bacon drifting through the house, reaching all the way to my bedroom. Strong coffee fills the air—rich, bitter, grown-up. It smells like adults and opinions, and I long for just one sip of that dark chocolate gold. But I’m always told I’m too little. “Little girls don’t drink coffee.”

I’m standing in front of a big oval wooden mirror. It looks ancient to my five-year-old eyes. The smells swirl around me: breakfast bacon, fresh eggs, hot toast slathered in butter. The windows are open, and the scent of fresh-cut grass sneaks in too, teasing me. I wish I could go outside—run barefoot, chase butterflies, sit on the porch stoop and make mud pies.

But instead, my clothes are already laid out neatly at the foot of my queen-sized bed, just like every Sunday. My green paisley dress. My white cotton panties with the lace trim. My full slip, so soft I hesitate to touch it—I don’t want to ruin it. I love Sundays because I get to feel that slip against my skin.

Then there are my socks—white with little lace ruffles at the top. Another favorite part of Sunday. On Sundays, I wore my best. And when I looked in the mirror, I thought I looked like the prettiest little girl in all of Chambers County.

My hair had been done the night before—straightened, parted, and combed like I’d just gotten a fresh perm. The style was simple and sweet: three big, fluffy ponytails. One on the top, and two in the back. Each tied with white knockers and topped with a big green yarn ribbon. I was the poster child for Sunday Best.

Sweet Home Alabama — where this little girl is from.

Church started promptly at 11 a.m., and Aunt Mae and Aunt Emma did not play about walking in late and letting the church folks’ tongues start wagging. Aunt Mae always said, “Lateness is a sin—just like they say cleanliness is next to Godliness. Well, lateness is next to the devil. And the devil is not going to get our family.”

So after a wonderful breakfast and some last-minute triple checks to make sure we looked our absolute best, we piled into that big black 1975 Chevrolet Caprice — the monster Aunt Emma drove. She had just started driving, and she drove slow as molasses in January, which meant we had to leave early. But we always made it right on time.

Walking into church felt like I was on display. Aunt Mae checked me over one last time, making sure every strand of hair was in place and each finger of my white kid gloves had its seams perfectly straight. I took her hand, and we walked to our spot — fourth row from the preacher’s stand. Even those hard wooden pews didn’t bother me because I was smiling from ear to ear, front teeth missing and all. A snaggle-toothed grin, but still a giddy, pretty little girl from Alabama.

My aunts always packed cookies and peppermints in their purses for me. A little sandwich, too, in case I got hungry. And when the organist started playing, Aunt Mae would lean over and whisper, “Little girl, you better behave or you’ll get the pinch — and you’ll be picking a switch later.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I’d whisper back in my softest voice, sounding as innocent as I looked in that moment.

But if Aunt Mae had taken a closer look—really looked into my eyes—she might’ve seen the truth. My eyes were like molasses when I was being mischievous and gleamed like melted caramel when I was behaving. And right then, they were slick and dark as corn syrup.

What she didn’t know was that this little girl, sitting pretty in her Sunday best, was about to set the church ablaze... because my imaginary friend had a plan.

I wasn’t a stranger to picking switches. This little Black Bama girl had a way of finding trouble — but looking back now, I see love dressed in discipline, tradition wrapped in lace, and a little girl who knew she was cherished, even when she got into a little mischief.

A little mischief was acceptable… but what was about to happen? No one was prepared for that Sunday.

Those Sunday mornings taught me more than just how to dress right or behave in church. They taught me about pride, about family, and about holding your head high no matter what the world outside might say. Long before I could name it, I was learning what it meant to carry myself with dignity — how to shine, even with skinned knees and missing teeth.

And even now, all these years later, when the world feels heavy or unkind, I close my eyes and go back to that wooden pew—Aunt Mae’s hand in mine, the scent of bergamot and bacon in the air—and that quiet voice in my ear reminding me:

“Little girl, you better behave.”

If she only knew.