Loose Change

The foster care system is a necessary evil in this country.  It is an institution that is suppose to be a solution for children who need temporary shelter to escape an abusive or neglectful situation.  In June of 1984, my siblings and I were introduced to Chicago’s foster care system.  My mother was charged with…

Fire!

Nights in the apartment produced voices that only my mother heard. She would fight against the voices with prayer and reading the Bible. She would sit us in a circle and read to us from the Bible. If our young eyes got heavy, we would be awaken by yells or a hit upside the head. Some nights my mother had to compete with our neighbor who would play Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust. I never recall meeting this neighbor, but my young impression was he was crazy. I was becoming fully exposed and recognized crazy.

M&Ms

There was as a buzz of excitement in my world, my mother was traveling from Chicago to pick me up so I can go to stay with her and my little sister in Chicago (apparently I have a little brother too, but I never met him). Grams had managed to find my a full luggage…

Doll House

So all year the focus was on miniature furniture. There was an antique sewing machine, a mahogany dining table with chairs, a four poster bed and a kitchen table. I then watched Grams make table clothes, small bath towels with tiny pink flowers and linens. I watched the collection grow bigger every month. She would polish every piece and place them in shoeboxes. I was always impressed with the details put into every item. I wonder what type of person had that much patience and creativity to be able to create every item. I was convinced at one point that there was a factory of little elves making warehouse filled with manicure furniture.

A place to call home

I used to imagine that the splattered seeds mixed with the green and white chunks of Osage-orange flesh were what brains on the pavement would look like. I thought that until a few kids and I stumbled on a bunch of blood and what appeared to be brain matter on the ground behind a building on our walk to school just about a week before. It was not the same, at all! We, I mean I, poked at some of the larger greyish chunks with a pencil from my bag. I was so fascinated by the soft and delicateness of it. It didn’t seem reasonable that this soft fragile mass could be the source of who we were. I could not comprehend what happened to the magic of the memories, thoughts, and love as the neurons that produced them lay in the street.