Checking the Exit Signs

And every time she says yes to you,
she starts inventing ways to say no.
How about dinner, Sunday? Yes.
She spies the dust on the bookcase, the
clothes to be ironed, and the dog hasn’t
been brushed in days. Sunday, maybe

She’ll get a head cold, that bronchitis
that persists, stirred up by the motes
dancing in the autumn light streaming in
her bay window. Maybe the drawbridge
catches on the roof of her mouth and
she can’t speak or kiss, so no stays

stuck in her throat.

Every time she says yes, she is
saying no.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Please share your thoughts. My instinct says the last stanza needs to go. What do you think?
Thank you for reading.

4 Little Girls in the 16th Street Baptist Church

Tonight I was clearing out files. I came across files of my daughter's, Sara, precious elementary school year, files of a psychological evaluations, files of her handmade cards, swimming certificates, and ballet recital programs. My daughter is married, just this year. She is a educated, happy, productive, responsible, and loving.

Lately, I've been reminded of four girls who never had that opportunity; 11-year-old Denise McNair and three 14-year-olds: Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson and Addie Mae Collins. The four girls died/were murdered during the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church on September 15, 1963. he girls had been in a basement dressing room, preparing for the 11:00am Adult Service.

Remarkable; the way the parents forged on, the way that the politics of Birmingham were forced to change, the way that segregation ended, the achievements of other children living in that space in that time.

You can meet the girls and their families here.

Remarkable as well: I would move to Huntsville, Alabama the next year. Our family would be targeting by the KKK for entertaining our friends visiting from Baltimore. The KKK would burn a cross on our front lawn. My mother told me to take my pillow and blanket and get in the closet. It was 2:00 AM and the front window glowed with noon day light but it was very dark in the closet. And it is/was very dark in our country to find justice and truth. We still struggle. But compassion and perception increase; we lean more toward one another than away; and thanks to the inevitable video or text reporting of any minute action, we become better mannered even if we harbor stupid fearful prejudices.

Now, on any given day, I have sunlight; I am lucky because my children are living, breathing, stomping about the earth and there is little else truly necessary to make me happy.