In thought, she was a girl.

In number, she was a woman.

She was what old folks would call yella

and their grown children would call light skinned.

She began her days with hesitation.

Her way was so soft

like a plush, thick velour.

And she was as meek and wide-eyed as a

4-week-old Russian Blue.

Finding mild to moderate humor

in most every detail of life...

I guess you have to

when memories,

when your past

is too thick to penetrate.

Her solace demands she concentrate on only

Now

And bow repeatedly to the pain.

The stains that man left on her as a girl

when Mama wasn't home

made a vow to remain

just below the skin, embedded under her nails,

tousled in her hair and

buried in her head.

So, she bed late

and married early.

And since malice and cruelty knew her address

It had no trouble finding her.

Her new groom thought

Death do us part

was literal

and after considerable resistance

So did she.

Continually filling her childhood cavity

with spoon after spoon

of empty.

She simply waited

and aided by the barrel of his gun

She leaped into God's arms

And touched

the Sun.

By Cynthia Mitchell a.k.a. Original Cyn ©