Jacqueline Woodson - Grown folks' stories lyrics

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.