Dirt
Once, she was white--
as crisp and clean as the Sunday linen
which was perfectly spread on the dining room table,
adorned with the “good” dishes, tarnished silverware, and fake crystal glasses.
And there was an abundance of food: fried chicken, biscuits and gravy,
collards with ham hocks,
and peach cobbler.
Everything was laid out buffet-style,
waiting on the preacher to come and take supper with us.
I watched
as she served the preacher first.
Then, she gave me permission to help myself to
whatever was left on the table. I ate
while she and the preacher went into the bedroom.
Maybe to pray.
Every Sunday for seven years, it was the same.
He came. We ate. They prayed.
Now,
the preacher has moved
on to a new town, a new table, a new momma.
Our Sunday linens are faded and yellow
and she is the color of dirt.
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