Warm autumn night with the crickets crying
the smell of pine coming soft on the wind
and the women
on the porch, quilts across their laps,
Aunt Lucinda, Miss Bell and whatever neighbor
has a breath or two left at the end of the day
for sitting and running our mouths.
That's when we listen
to the grown folks talking.
Hope, Dell and me sitting quiet on the stairs.
We know one word from us will bring a hush
upon the women, my grandmother's finger suddenly
pointing towards the house, her soft spoken
I think it's time for you kids to go to bed now ushering
us into our room. So we are silent, our backs against
posts and the back of the stairs, Hope's elbows
on his knees, head down. Now is when we learn
everything
there is to know
about the people down the road and
in the daywork houses,
about the Sisters at the Kingdom Hall
and the faraway relatives we rarely see.
Long after the stories are told, I remember them,
whisper them back to Hope
and Dell late into the night:
She's the one who left Nicholtown in the daytime
the one Grandmama says wasn't afraid
of anything. Retelling each story.
Making up what I didn't understand
or missed when voices drop too low, I talk
until my sister and brother's soft breaths tell me
they've fallen
asleep.
Then I let the stories live
inside my head, again and again
until the real world fades back
into cricket lullabies
and my own dreams.