A Female's Business, Babies, & I Float By

Like most women her age, she didn't enjoy it;

she did what she was supposed to do.

She had eight kids, and promised herself, no more.

The first husband wanted no more than two children;

the second husband, he didn't care how many she had;

he knew, come what may, she would take care of them,

and she did. Her daughters, when it was their turn,

had two and one miscarriage; the second had none,

and two abortions; and the youngest daughter had two,

ten years in between births. Each of her daughters knew

and sensed the toll it took on their mother to have so

many children, which she alone cared for and made

sure they had food, clothing, and a safe place to rest.

My oldest brother grew up with his maternal

Grandparents, and then at the age of 17, ran away

from home to live in New York City, to be with his siblings.

He ran away from a good, middle class, solid home life,

but he was lonely, and my grandparents were old,

and getting older. I'm sure it broke their hearts when

he didn't want to stay. They needed him, but he did not

need them anymore. He took flight and never looked back.

I was not given the chance to get to know my grandparents.

There's a good chance I would have loved living with them.

I would have loved to learn from grandma: family history,

dessert recipes, and the like.

My aunts were wonderful. I loved them too.

For me to stay, was not to be. My mother moved her husband,

and the rest of us seven (7) to New York City

when I was ten (10), the last day and the saddest day

of my life in North Carolina. When something is sad for me,

it is hard not to miss it. Stopped in time, I was, like a train wreck.

They shushed me out of the room. I gave grandma a last hug.

My aunts and mother watched. I felt betrayed.

I still wanted to cry. Thinking about it hurts,

but I moved on a long while ago, and my mind almost never

went back.

Everybody seemed to die off after that. First

grandpa, then grandma got lost wondering the streets

of Durham. It seems her sugar was too high, and she

could not find her way home. They never said where

they found her in her wonderings. She died soon after.

Then Aunt Annie died, and Aunt Mattie, the oldest,

moved to California to live near her daughter.

Uncle Bill was already in New York. Then Uncle Tommie,

Aunt Geraldine's husband, passed away too. Like tragic magic,

Aunt Geraldine, the queen of ice cream desserts joined Uncle Tommie,

on a moon pie in the sky, just like that. It seemed all the aunts

and uncles were dropping while time flies by.

Death is not magic. It is the other end of life. We make it

mysterious, so we can wallow and hold on longer than we

we know, ‘cause we do know the fabricated vale of mystery.

We make it fit to sooth the aching souls of those still living.

Caped and sometimes clocked, I was traveling through school,

all in a day's daze. So much to do, so little time to think,

like a fast-moving car zipping along a highway route.

There goes time gliding by again. Holding on for dear life,

the wind pressed in, giving brief relief, my stomach

swirling through space, so many road trips, a sour dizzying

pace, stopping ever so often, a calm beneath, yet another storm.

I don't remember elementary. Junior High was a blip,

a girlfriend huddle, a misfit trip, and I couldn't wait to git,

my curly brown skin and hair, the rest of the year, out of there.

When drifting through High school, so much more, I still don’t

remember. There was a lot of sitting. There was a lot of homework.

Specifics are non-existent, no sleep, no rest, and tried to do my best,

while carving out a "C" with my last and lonely breath,

a college took pity on me. As far away as I could get, I was ready

to flee. Hard pavements, sleepless nights, stone cramps to pass with fright,

any teen girl’s period is nothing to laugh at. God Almighty,

how did I make it through that?

My salvation, my salutation, my graduation from college was sweet.

Still not knowing who the hell I was, still not caring to turn back the clock,

New York was a thing of the past, too big, too cold, too broad, a big Rock.

North Carolina became a distant land; Washington, DC was near at hand.

I settled there, and here I am, trying to rebuild new pieces in the sand.

Environments do change. People are another spot. They are a strange,

behavior range. The wind comes and goes, while people, glory knows.

I have to feel secure. I have to rebuild my stair. The Good, the Bad and,

and what Ugly is left there, a new suit of armor I wear. A cut so short,

2020 is my new hair. It will hardly make you stare. Yes. I paid my

dues for 43 years and done what I was supposed to do.

Last time I dared was in 1972. Who knew?