"God is obviously white because He said I am who I am not I is who I is", the coffeehouse girl says, surely to be funny but i wish she could go with me when we gather in the woods, down a rutted dirt road, a ways off the highway, where shadows are buried, too dark to fit in among the white tombstones of the town cemetery in years prior.
Rocks, some crudely etched with initials, others just framed pictures, fading into memory, mark the history of family and we lay to rest a mother, her mound surrounded by picket fence flower bed border, drape it in flowers and sing with one voice, Amazing Grace, which comes in all colors.
But i just order my coffee, black, like the son who that day cried on my shoulder, & strong, like my friend, who after, still carries on.
February is Black History month. I have been enjoying some of the programs at several of the local colleges with a few of my friends and making a few more as I continue learning and growing. The son was one of the kids I worked with.