It's All Love

by Marita Golden

  My father and my mother's seven brothers and sisters looked completely destroyed. I could only imagine what my maternal grandmother, Lamercie “Mummum” Joseph, was feeling. My mother was her firstborn. She alternated between dry-eyed disbelief and brief episodes of wailing outbursts. My woeful grieving grandmother followed all Haitian cultural protocol for a mother attending her child's funeral. She wore all white, and she did not attend the burial site after the funeral mass. She waited a few days before visiting Mummy's crypt.

  It was hard not to chuckle when Mummum spoke. The woman had such a quick wit and an unmatched sense of humor that you never knew when she was on the verge of a co-medic delivery. No moment was too sad or inappropriate for a quality punch line.

  “Timoun,” she said in Creole to my sister Golda and me. “Children, now I assume the role of mother and grandmother.”

  “And you're gonna be my mother of the bride,” I teased her, using our usual mock-threatening tone. I was to be married in September 2007- That was one of two 2007 events that my mother had been looking forward to—that and the May birth of Golda's second child.

  The humor in Mummum's voice was gone. My grandmother's blue-gray eyes looked pained. “I'll be too sad to walk down the aisle as mother of the bride,” she said.

  My sisters and cousins normally crowded Mummum's kitchen for a yummy meal and colorful tales. She was the family nucleus. Mummum performed her stories, twisting her face, arching her back, and waving her hands to expand the listener's imagination. Not the average grandma, Mummum rooted for the Washington Redskins and stayed glued to the tube when a boxing match was on. I'd always known her to be much more hip than my traditional mother. Her record collection alone could rival that of a person a quarter of her age. Plus, I always thought it was cool that she gave us Pappy Andre, a doting stepgrandfather, an esteemed gentleman and devoted, loving husband to Mummum for fifty years. After Mummy's funeral, we crowded her kitchen in concern for her grieving process.

  When Golda's daughter Zora was born, she was the spitting image of my mother. Mummum sat at her kitchen table, holding Zora in amazement. It seemed to bring Mummum a bit of comfort.

  Three months after Mummy's funeral, my stepgrandfather, Andre “Pappy Andre” Joseph, was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. Two weeks later he was gone.

  It was May of 2007.

  With Pappy Andre's funeral, Mummum began grieving for Mummy all over again. “She was such a good child. Never disrespected me. Never talked back,” she lamented Mummy's famous obedience one day. Mummum raised her arms in anguish and placed her hands on top of her head. I held her as her tears flowed. Mummum never recovered from her gut-wrenching grief. Her sister Dada, husband Andre, and most especially, her daughter Viviane vanished one after another. Two months later Mummum was hospitalized and never returned home. She passed away with over twenty family members at her side—my sister, cousins, aunts, uncle, and myself included. Her death was a devastating blow.

  It was July of 2007.

  After her passing, I wondered what it was that Mummum tried to express in her final moments. She couldn't speak. An oxygen mask fitted tightly on her face. But she struggled to say something. Frantically, Mummum raised her hands and attempted to pull offher mask. She nearly lifted her head off the pillow. What was it she wanted to say? It plagued me.

  Recently, my cousin Jessica said Mummum appeared to her in a dream, saying that she tried everything not to leave us.

  That answered my question. As she was being called by her Maker, Mummum felt troubled that we would suffer yet another terrible loss.

  On my wedding day in September of that year, I was led down the aisle by my weeping father. A front-row seat marked by a single red rose was kept empty in my mother's memory. I heard isolated sniffs in surround sound. It was a bittersweet occasion. I remained mindful of the fact that the Lord had blessed me with three maternal guardians—my godmother, mother, and grandmother—who are now angels guiding me on my journey.

  As my husband and I begin a new chapter, it saddens me that my future children will not personally know my mother. But it brings me comfort to feel that indeed the heart does go on. I still feel their love as strongly now as ever. I am their living legacy. And it is armed with their intentions and principles that I move forward for the benefit of the next generation.

  Fiction

  Geraldine's Song

  FELICIA PRIDE

  I HAVEN'T SMOKED in almost three days, but I swear I can see the color of hope in Mel's eyes. It's a brown shade, not bright orange or skylight blue like I thought. Brown. Like the thin layer of a sunrise. Like the palms of Grandlovey's hands. The pull of my son's soul, far more superior to the lure of a blunt, is so strong that it takes me in and doesn't let go.

  I wonder if Pops saw this same sensation when he looked into my eyes, twenty-two years ago. He might have because he told me this would be the most powerful experience of my life. Powerful. A defining moment. I get what he meant.

  Ageless players around the way who double as local historians always tell me that Pops spit me out. That I got his heavy eyes and his defined mouth and that my ears sag just the same. Junior remains my name as I walk the neighborhood.

  Because childbirth murdered Geraldine, my mother and the only woman who ever understood Pops, grief was supposed to make him turn to one of the chemical pick-me-ups readily available in The Gardens, my Baltimore neighborhood where nothing green grows except cash.

  Cycles dictate that Pops was supposed to bail on me and leave the chore of raising a man-child to Grandlovey. His father did it. Everyone knew through Grandlovey's church testimonies that the Lord kept her when her husband did not. Pops recalled bumping into his father once by accident. On the corner. Their eyes spoke to one another. Grandpops continued on his rolling stone ways.

  But Pops was a complex man with a simple view on everything. “Don't fuck with life and it won't fuck with you.” That's what he always told me. He read the Bible every day but maintained a healthy contempt for church. Despite the fact that Grandlovey is a preacher and used to house a small church in her basement, he never set foot into a place of worship as an adult. He used to joke around, let out one of his ten-dollar laughs, and tell me that when he was a young ‘un with a runny nose, he hated putting on the same gray suit, a hand-me-down from one of the older boys in the neighborhood, because the pants itched his crotch. Grandlovey would slap his hands and scold him that he best stop touching himself in church before the Lord taketh away.

  “Love isn't just a feeling, Junior; it's an act.” His words echo in my head as I peek in on Tanisha while I hold our son in my arms. We said “I do” in front of Grandlovey ten days after the stick turned blue. The act of loving Tanisha was like living to me. Necessary. Natural. We are a family.

  I find myself checking on her often. Making sure she is still there. The blackness of Grandlovey's house shields me from seeing the tightness of Tanisha's lips as she sleeps. I can't make out the twist of her brows or the curve of her femininity. But she remains a snapshot in my mind. Vision isn't important. I leave her to dream about the son she was told she could never have.

  It's only a few hours before the sun announces a new day.

  Grandlovey's house is deathly quiet. It's hiding from the neighborhood. The low murmur of a helicopter in the distance. The pop-pop of gunplay. The scream of desperation.

  I've spent the last two sunrises in my old room that Tanisha and I converted into a makeshift nursery. We moved my twin bed into the basement to make space for a Salvation Army crib. I kept my basketball posters hanging just in case Mel sees a future. I sit with my son in my arms in a rocking chair that doesn't rock. I am a father.

  6:18 P.M. Ishmael Ill's official time of birth.

  My son is awake. I call him Mel for short. Let him grow into his name. He's a clean slate. No expectations. No failures. No faults. As close to perfect as he'll ever be. I don't see myself in him and I'm glad. I'll let him grow into his name. I've been aw
ake longer than he's been alive.

  He stares back at me. Softly. Intently. With trust. Cycles are funny.

  I was seventeen years old when I realized that Pops loved life so much that he couldn't continue living. The guys with the white jackets said six months was generous. Cancer is like the military, it'll recruit anyone.

  No sex. No Grandlovey's fried chicken. No going to O'Dell's for a drink. No more long days as a correctional officer. All mandates from the guys with the white jackets. It was simple, really. If Pops wanted to live longer, he would have to give up stuff. But Pops was a complex man. He sabotaged his chances. Overlived. Fucked with life. In his mind, he was already dead.

  But he existed for a little while. Confined to a bed. That wasn't living. Grandlovey gave up her room on the third floor because it got better ventilation. Pops was always hot. Sweaty. A nurse would come by and clean him, make him presentable. But he still didn't want me to see him. Weighing less than me.

  Patches of thin, silver hair residing loosely on his head. Flakes of skin shedding on his rubber sheets.

  I respected that. But only when he was awake. When he was asleep, I'd sneak in like a child afraid of the dark and stare at him. Softly. Intently. With trust. Then I'd leave unnoticed and pretend that I hadn't seen him dying.

  The nurse told me that he was sorry to miss my concerts. Her words were always “It pained him that he couldn't attend your affair today.”

  So I'd give him private performances. Outside of Grand-lovey's door, I'd play his favorite, Bach's Concerto in A Minor. My violin was the gateway to his shimmers of happiness. I played to see pride illuminate his face. But I couldn't see him. He was being selfish. It was lonely behind the wood barrier.

  Pops bought me a violin when I was twelve. Told me I needed to own my dream. I named her Geraldine after the mother who I can only dream about.

  At times, during my private concerts, I was no longer standing on the pale hardwood floor in front of Grandlovey's door. I was onstage. The New York Philharmonic. Evening affair. Solo. Pops is there. Front row.

  He used to tell me that my playing reminded him of the voices of angels. I'd ask him how he knew that sound. He'd simply reply, “Because they visit me.” I believed him.

  The funeral was the last time. The last time that I courted Geraldine. Sometimes I remember the day as a blur of flowers, white gloves, and loud organ playing. Other times I just recall my performance. Sloppy, like I was six years old again and screeching through my first recital. Cycles are funny.

  Most times I just remember the day as an abstract vision. A dream? I want to look into my father's eyes, but can't. I want to see the clairvoyance that prevented me from taking a knife to school to shank a kid who disrespected me. Pops knew that stupidity and had a remedy for it. Clothed me in understanding. I want to see love manifested. I want to see what my mother saw.

  I look at my son.

  Mel is asleep. I lay him in his crib. I'm scared shitless. Pops made it look easy. I need to reconnect with him.

  I grab Geraldine from the back of my closet. She's hidden beneath rags and dirty magazines. I unleash her from her cloth case. I hold her like I just held Mel. She looks tired. A string is popped. I replace it and adjust her voice. Alternate between the tuning pegs and the fine tuners, plucking the strings two, three, and four times for accuracy. The exactness of how each of the four should sound is as familiar as Grandlovey's humming.

  I tighten the bow. The thin wood feels cold in my hand. Distant. I add a little of the cracked rosin to the delicate hairs. Too much will distort the sound.

  I play one note.

  A.

  Slowly.

  Inhale. Eight count. Exhale. Natural.

  I continue with scales, giving equal attention to each string. I dive into improvisation, my fingers agile as a saxophone player's. Geraldine begins to take over my movements. I flow with her.

  I play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” The first song I learned. Mel doesn't waken.

  Just like riding a bike.

  Then I play Pop's favorite. Effortlessly. My vibrato is first-chair worthy. I fall into myself. I fall into the music. I clench my eyes. Surge through Bach's three movements. I can see Pop's smile. I can see Pop's eyes. Geraldine sounds like angels.

  Mel sleeps through it. I am his father.

  7:27 P.M. Pop's official time of death.

  My son was born one hour and nine minutes prior. My mother died thirty-five minutes before that. I was born.

  And Geraldine sings.

  Be Longing

  STACIA L. BROWN

  THERE WAS A METEOR SHOWER the night my mother, my father, and I left D.C. for my grandfather's funeral. I barely knew him, but it made sense to mourn him. I'd always kept him in a mental snow globe. When I shook him from the recesses of my mind, a flurry of rumors swirled up and clouded him: daytime drunkard. Acid-addled adulterer. Hapless heroin addict. Beguiler and beater of wives. But when the accusations settled all around him, I could see him standing on stable ground— the most stable ground a girl with parents like mine could grope for.

  My mother's mother was one of the many women my grandfather bewitched and left behind. What little I knew of him I'd culled, in part, from her epithets, tossed bitterly about like paint splashes. Gramsy made anyone within earshot her canvas. But somehow, her artful assassination of his character never really stuck to me. I'd never seen him nod out on a street corner in three-day-old clothes. I'd never seen him hit anyone, let alone one of his women. I hadn't seen him do much of anything, and I loved him the more for that.

  I saw him as somebody's granddaddy—even though he'd never acted as mine. And he was a hip granddad. The kind who wore Kangol hats slightly askew. The kind who talked around the toothpick jutting from the corner of his smirking lips. The kind who bopped around town with a jazz-infused swagger.

  Sometimes absence is the only fertile soil for fondness. That's just a little truism I've picked up in dealing with my parents.

  LELETI AND JOHN WERE HIPSTERS before there was a clever name for them. Their matching uniforms of obscure rock band T-shirts, jeans with ripped knees, and black Converse All-Stars magnetized them. It was love, pretentious and distant, at first sight. Most people familiar with their work—her art and his prose—feel compelled to correct me when I call them hipsters. “Not hipsters,” the overzealous insist, “hip-pies.”

  See, people seem to think my parents are pop culture pioneers or manifesto makers or close personal friends with Joni Mitchell and Ravi Shankar or some such. I suppose they look the part—Leleti with her chemical-free hair shimmying around her shoulders and John with his gray, elbow-length dreadlocks effervescing their sandalwood essences. Leleti with henna patterning her palms, a Black Power fist tattooed on the back of her shoulder, and John with his thick black eyeglass frames, worn only before the semi-well-attended readings of his semipolitical prose.

  But no. I'm sure there were Black hippies. I'm sure there were politically charged pacifists who handed white daisies to Black Panthers and protested the war and spelled America with a k and attended Woodstock to hear acts other than Hendrix and pressed their hair with straightening combs and parted it down the middle. My parents were children when all that was happening. No, the seventies were more than half over when they met, and they were indifferent to anything approaching revolution. They were self-absorbed and obnoxiously hip, and they were obsessed with exile.

  D.C. had been deliciously dark when we left it. The sky had a way of blackening over the country's capital that made me superconscious that its complicated streets had been designed by a Black man. It'd been awhile since I'd seen those skies. I'd been boycotting visits to Leleti and John, until I got that one-line e-mail from Leleti three nights before. “Daddy died” was all it said.

  I counted five falling stars before we hit Breezewood. I didn't wish on any of them, even though there are a million things I could've wished for—not least of which was a new name. It's difficult to be Black
and named Anouk. (It's difficult to be Black, but that's hardly a revelation now, is it?)

  I'm not sure my grandfather ever knew my name. I may have been just that vague to him. He always referred to me as “the baby”—Leleti's baby, born before she and my father were wed.

  I was conceived in ‘78, during my parents’ first trip to Amsterdam. Anouk was the name of the newborn in the family of their study-abroad hosts. I am told that she was a redhead with pinches of paprika baked into her cheeks and eyes like the shorn grass of early spring. I am told that often.

  Leleti and John were always fondly reminiscing about the various facets of my conception.

  I can't help but wonder if that would've been the case if Leleti had been raised by my grandfather. I wonder if he would've been the type to blurt out, “Don't nobody wanna hear all that! Keep yo’ bed-talk in the bedroom.” I like to think he would've been. I'm definitely the type, and that's gotta come from somewhere.

  It's the somewhere that seems to hold all the import when loved ones are absentee. Anything—any untraceable trait or unsolved enigma—can reside in the somewhere, the wherever-they-are when they aren't with you. My grandfather was a shadow whose form was flattened under the cellophane in the photo albums no one ever pulled out to admire.

  His name was Evan Garde, and “he was avant-garde.” That was what Leleti always said about him.

  LELETI AND JOHN DIDN'T PLAN for me. Leleti and John don't do much planning. They tell themselves they're like tumble-weed, tossed wheresoever the wind blows. But they're trendy nomads, looking to Fodor's guides and the travel sections of the Detroit Free Press, the Washington Post, and the New York Times for potential relocation spots. We'd lived in the Delta, New Orleans, Molokai, Nice, Baltimore, and Vegas by the time I was ten, bunking with pen pals and hostel-hopping much of the time. Whenever I didn't know the language, they'd home-school me. Wherever English was spoken, they'd enroll me at the nearest public school and gripe every afternoon about all the things the System wasn't teaching me. Even back then they were totally ostentatious, prattling on about the genius of Bas-quiat when I brought home finger paintings in the first grade.