Untitled
This memory is tied to a sycamore tree. Which I think was actually a cottonwood. Even though either way the tree is sequoia size epic in this memory.
I have no idea why we'd be underneath this tree. It was at the back of our back yard. By an ugly cyclone fence where you could see the cemetery and/or woods. It all depended on which side of the tree you were standing under. I seem to think we were under the left side that day. Or right. I guess. It all depends on your perspective, and ours was the cemetery on that late Sunday afternoon.
"Tomorrow is your first day of school," she said.
I nodded. Scared. Excited. Uncertain.
"I can't believe it," she added.
I nodded. I couldn't believe it either. I was going to be in 1st grade. Which was actually Kindergarten. But I never could get that right 'cause I was stuck in a black and white logical chronological world and Kindergarten was my 1st grade.
"I never went to that school," she said.
I nodded.
"That was the negro school when I was young," she added.
She is still young. In this memory. Twelve years younger than this version of me who sits here remembering it all.
"I went to high school where you're going to go to Junior High school," she said.
I nodded. Not really understanding that she had one foot in the past and one in the future as she looked at me in the here and now trying to express all that can never really be expressed. Unless your a poet. Or artist.
"Come here," she said. Holding her arms out to me to come forward into her embrace.
Which I did.
She squeezed me tight, whispering something in my ear that I didn't quite get, or can't remember, as I looked over her shoulder into the cemetery.
Which is where this memory fades back to a large sycamore tree. Which I think was actually a cottonwood.
I have no idea why we'd be underneath this tree. It was at the back of our back yard. By an ugly cyclone fence where you could see the cemetery and/or woods. It all depended on which side of the tree you were standing under. I seem to think we were under the left side that day. Or right. I guess. It all depends on your perspective, and ours was the cemetery on that late Sunday afternoon.
"Tomorrow is your first day of school," she said.
I nodded. Scared. Excited. Uncertain.
"I can't believe it," she added.
I nodded. I couldn't believe it either. I was going to be in 1st grade. Which was actually Kindergarten. But I never could get that right 'cause I was stuck in a black and white logical chronological world and Kindergarten was my 1st grade.
"I never went to that school," she said.
I nodded.
"That was the negro school when I was young," she added.
She is still young. In this memory. Twelve years younger than this version of me who sits here remembering it all.
"I went to high school where you're going to go to Junior High school," she said.
I nodded. Not really understanding that she had one foot in the past and one in the future as she looked at me in the here and now trying to express all that can never really be expressed. Unless your a poet. Or artist.
"Come here," she said. Holding her arms out to me to come forward into her embrace.
Which I did.
She squeezed me tight, whispering something in my ear that I didn't quite get, or can't remember, as I looked over her shoulder into the cemetery.
Which is where this memory fades back to a large sycamore tree. Which I think was actually a cottonwood.
Comments
Post a Comment