She sat there in that chair,
her hair pulled round her head in a circle, with little pulls of blond and gray, traces of black and brown, woven into the strands from yesterday, that’s built into the ring, that comes out on each morning and fixed to her head with clips and pins.
It’s evening now, suppers cooked, dishes are done, family is fed, sipping ice tea, and fresh hot coffee, and listening to the cicadas in the tree, as summer is just starting to wane . The air isn’t moving, the heat of the day is cooler than the heat of the kitchen.
That blue dress that had the pins of white flowers, with spots of grease from the skillet and flour from the bread, and okra, all fed and grace given . Her hands are wrinkled, yet soft, her eyes are tight behind her glasses, she had on canvas shoes that were also blue, an attempt at matching her dress.
She rocked back and forth so softly that one would have to watch to see her move, in these few minutes of rest, before sleeping pallets were made, and night was falling in the West.
She would laugh. Say smart aleck things. Talk of Aunt Ernestine or Miss Trudy, or that man that dressed all in white. Sing. “H-a Huckle, P-a Puckle, Huckle Berry Pie” and “Who is your Barber? Tom Mix, Who is is wife? Alice Fay. How are their children? OK!”
There was nothing fancy about her, not a wisp of hair, not a spec of makeup, her glasses were old, her dress even older, her put-on hair, even older than that, but oh the richness she held in her heart.
All in that chair, sitting on the front porch, feeling the night sky, to be her child’s child, was the awesome part of the day.
Ralph Peck
(Photo by Chrystel Foster)
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