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The engine warms inside the whirl of a white van, boxy and cased with chilled windows. Me and him, cup of black coffee and automotive hum, and always a wave and one-word conversation. Tall, lanky, and predictable. We waved for weeks on end, before we met halfway in the middle of the street.
She brings out their youngest, and it’s the first time seeing him since he was in that rocker. Holding him under his armpits, he kicks facetiously — his bumble bee body like a bopping bouquet of flowers in her mother-hands. His head is full and tall with nappy hair, as full as my baby sister’s hair when it stood up straight for years. We were very simple once, I remember this from photos of a time ago — a tropical beach with its warm sand and murky lapping waves. She laughed loud, her chubby face in a perpetual grin, just as he does now. Under this gray blanket of clouds, on this worn wooden porch, I know, I know that I am lucky to see this.
4 comments:
Nostaglic, a little sad, I like it - got more?
what?! jesus isnt yr first love?
keep writing, sista.
hey shuli, this is great! thanks for sharing.
Your writing inspires me to write! Keep it up.
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