She had company once. When I was a child, she, along with her church sisters would sit in the basement room on Sunday evenings, where the two of us lived, and sing about being pilgrims in this barren land called life. In that moment, the sad world would close in on them as they sang of a place they had not and perhaps would never see. They had tambourines, but except for that intermittent knock, they mostly laid them aside. Every so often, one person would come over to us children as we played in the corner. Be silent lest the Ponts hear they said in hushed angry voices. Other times, our laughter was silenced by the anguish that swelled in their throats. Empty Me From Self Oh Lord, was the anthem you all sang. And because we could hardly do anything, we watched from a far. From the window of the basement, the only place through which the sun shone. Those days are long gone. The hums remain though, in that place where nostalgia was the only thing that kept her.
“Junkies. Roads filled with needles and fear. Harlem was a cesspit. We couldn’t wait to leave. Your father and me. But here we are, back in the desert. The burbs this time.” She embellished the sounds as they rolled from her lips. “Who would have thought that the white lady would have followed us here of all places. She is here Button. And she came with a spoon.”
Awesome story @nicholas83
Thanks.