April 3rd, 2014

This morning I told the girls at the coffee shop stories of horror from my life and they
gazed wide eyed, and I laughed and ended the stories with something like, but not exactly,
no matter what happens as long as you survive it, there's always something beautiful, 
if you want to see it that is. Every black woman over the age of 70 reminds me of my
 grandmother. It has always been this way. Everything is wanting to bud, but not budding
yet, even though it is April 3rd. I have ruined this flow. I have stepped back from the
voice and started singing a song I don't like over it. I have plugged my ears with the kind
of longing that sticks to the back of your throat so that you can't even taste the wine you
bring to your lips. It is bitter and sweet, the wine. It has always been this way. Tonight I
will give your necklace, that I only wore once when I was a girl working in a coffee shop,
to Nikki and I will say it is time. And it is time. The buds will grow and break into bloom.
There is nothing that can stop this. A man down the street from me waves a white shirt
in the wind. He is shaking it out before folding it, but I look at just the right moment
to see it as a white flag. There are white flags everywhere. It has always been this way.