There I was sitting in my high chair. Okay, so I don’t have a High Chair. Or a bar stool. I just wanted something fancy, high-riding, where I could swing my feet off the ground. Take in the high air- not like the warmth of another winter. Where the hot air rises and I do too.
Where the bad news can’t reach me or get-me down in my shoes.
Where my toes are free. On Summer’s eve, even though it’s 37 degrees and snowing,
Where the dew of the morning gently rest over my curds and whey. Ignoring the bits of icy rocks setting sail,
instead my mind has gone to nearby cell,
Where my arms have no sleeves, dawn has no end,
with sun tan lotion and glowing. ah- the taste of sweetness,
Where the dew of the morning gently rest over my curds and whey.
Through the years, I’d stumbled lightly over the term “growing up” Looking over the silliest complexities in growing. I can remember the tender age of eight. The best thing ever, since slice bread. I brought to my class, on Show and Tell, a brand new rabbit. I was so happy, I could have slapped myself. (okay I probably did)
When Mr. Luna said “good morning class.” My hand shot up like a rocket in the air. My bunny-rabbit was neatly tuck away in a cage, with a warm grey cotton top. I was’ leaping in my chair like it was a trampoline. And I was trying out for the star role on the Olympics.
Mr.Luna : who would like to be first?
Me: o-o-h, me, please, me, me.
Mr.Luna: Alright Krissy you can go first.
I slowly stood up, beads of sweat and joy building upon my forehead. I was prepared for it. I took out Kwanana’ brown’s birthday napkin. I’d saved in my desk for times like these. Usually in high pressured moments, I’m one to sweat heavily under the armpits. I guess all the extra toilet paper and baby powder that morning, the sweat had nowhere else to go.
So there I was lifting the soft grey cotton top. My fluffy grey and white rabbit with its brown button nose. I could hear the class o-ohs’ and aw’s. I carefully lifted my rabbit, that I’d named Honey’ by 8:00 am that morning.
Tasting nothing less, than sweet victory. I’d steal the crown, The Class’ Favorite Show-And Tell, starring Honey!
I smiled, like I’d won the lottery on the 6:00 o’clock news. I presented myself, hi” everybody, my name is Krissy. This is my beautiful baby rabbit Honey. I’ve always wanted a pet. Mom always said no. Then she found out that the mail-lady had gifted me an abandoned rabbit almost three years old.
Mom said the rabbit could stay as long as I kept up with: cleaning it, feeding it, washing it and all my other chores. I didn’t care that Honey was a lot of work. I truly wanted Honey.
In the middle of my big speech Christopher Jones said “Whoppi-doo,doo. Honey can’t do tricks, can she? I shook my head, “not at the moment.” So what’s so special about Honey?
I had to think fast. That’s when it hit me, all the church services I’ve attended. All the songs I’d listened to. Watching the saints’ and those who came close including me.
“Yes,” I replied, Christopher Jones. You believe in God don’t you? Before he’d muster up an answer. I revved back in little girl preacher mode, swallowed a lump of spit and said,
“Well this is one of God’s gentle creatures.” By this time with my church finger swinging in the air. “You know, they don’t bite. In fact, its probably proven, that bunnies, can alleviate stress. I know it does for me.”
“Honey brings me joy when I’m sad.
Honey has taught me things like rabbits don’t eat carrots.
Honey is kind and sweeter than sugar to me.
Honey has saved my life, more that I can count,
probably even my childhood.”
That being my last word, I wiped my face. Somehow drenched in a bucket of water and took my seat. The class cheered and applauded.
your kindness sister Krissy (true stories from my childhood)
It was the thundering 80’s when I was conceived. A healthy brown baby doll- 8’pounds, 13, ounces. Dark brown eyes to match my glowing skin. Mama’ said “she’d stayed off drugs long enough to have me.” After that she gave her life to Jesus. Prayed that I’d turn out alright.
staying with the moment, enough- to wonder, if I’d -been born of a different time. Would I Charleston, with the roaring 20’s? Could I lap-out a scat-ta-tat-tat- tap? Or Mash Potato my way through dangers seen and unseen. Would my pen and I be the same?
Staring my imagination, right in the middle of a vivacious swing, I pulled out my umbrella, I was prepared but this rain came out of nowhere, with impeccable timing – thrashing and thrashing.
I ran into a brick wall, all because, I took the long way home. Jumped over the first puddle but hit the wall instead. The umbrella cushioned the blow. Yes, I was hurt but I pretended like I was admiring each pink and red square of that wall.
Slowly slinking away with my wounded umbrella and pride.
sometimes there are just days like this…(okay maybe just for the dreamers out there)
IN memory of The Poem, sung By Billie Holiday “Strange Fruit”
Southern trees bear a strange fruit Blood on the leaves and blood at the root Black bodies swingin’ in the Southern breeze Strange fruit hangin’ from the poplar trees
Pastoral scene of the gallant South The bulgin’ eyes and the twisted mouth Scent of magnolias sweet and fresh Then the sudden smell of burnin’ flesh
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck For the rain to gather For the wind to suck For the sun to rot For the tree to drop Here is a strange and bitter crop
In the beginning, of the long dark, frosty night. I stood watching the angelic clouds, beautiful angels hold gatherings-surroundings of the same dark city. Deeper and deeper- angels brought us safely across bridges and stoic mountains holding our dark past within its grooves.
We over came the hatred of ourselves. The hatred of our skin’s- bitter fruit. Strange things, “scented Magnolias sweet and fresh” the eyes of the south, the burning of the mouth and “blood at the root.” Hold out your tongue, chile,’ don’t cut it out.
The soul of black bodies, the soul of white folk, marching,
“Jim crow” behind us,
all the while,
the cross before us.
and we made it,
some places, we bore the heat of the chain,
some bore slavery at its shame, and we made it,
somebodies’ son, somebodies daughter, “swinging on the poplar trees”,
the road are swollen, some, no road at all.
Still, we made it
and all the while, there were “splinters, tacks and boards torn-up”.
We never stop, we never sat down.
and now, my dear chile’, with the road before us, we’ll hold on,
Yesterday I felt like my writting had hit a snag, okay, okay a slump. What- ever this is, I know can write my way out. God always makes a way out. Now that ‘s not to say, there isn’t spilled milk or crying, going-on over here. I’ve done plenty. As the old saying goes, no need crying over spilled milk. I guess the writer forgot to add, when there is spillage and honey there will be spillage.
Nobody knows how far the spill spreads, a little here, a little there. Feels like I’m swimming around in it. One small drip into a thousand more, cascades off the light pink-brown table down onto the brown rustic wooden legs seeping into kitchen cracks. I’m running around looking for a clean dish rag. Why? I don’t know why?
I know this makes no sense but that’s just the way life is. There’s the car that won’t start so I walk my kids to the school bus, only to find the milk still leaking. My neighbor stops me to tell me, that the doctors have found a small tumor in her throat. Milk still leaking.
I just need God to come through, for my neighbor, my family and everyone else around me, even those reading this right now.
As I’m cleaning and praying.
I couldn’t use my kitchen towels because my seven-year old’s glue stick project was fully occupied with slimy goo. Pasted in red letters, Happy Valentine’s mushed in-between.
I thought of the next best thing. Hey no judgment! These things happen, when the milk is being spilled.
I found some old shirts, thick enough to absorb a gallon of -precious jewels like this.
There’s nothing reuse-able about God’s holy spirit
God I know you can hear it, the cry of your people
In the south, way-way back in the woods stood my old -home-church. A small off-white building. Where I learn to play the drums, direct the youth choir and for the life of me- I don’t know why, I do believe.
I would take off my Sunday shoes and race on that dusty- dirt road. Covered in dirt from the waist down. Felt like, I did, some of my best running back at that ole’ church.
I remember the hot sweaty air, accumulating down into my off white stockings. My off white stockings slipping pass my hips. My long piano fingers -pinching my waistline for dear life. All I wanted to do was win.
Kick my heels back, point my chin to the sky, taste sweet nothings’ in the breeze, close my eyes and feel like I’ve been running for miles, only to go fifteen meters toward the church steps.
Dust off my ruffled black skirt and walk up the stairs like the wind had been knocked out of me. All the while I could hear the joyous music of praise and jubilee.
There are times, where my mind seems to find – deepest/darkness of memories but that’s not who I am anymore. All that pain, all that misery wrapped around itself, made something,
beautiful out of me…
I’m watching the snowfall, for the first time, in a long time, sitting by myself, in a warm and comfy chair.
I’ve seen my share – where the world has got its’ shame,
where the world bends,
broken wings are changing,
we’re all feathers together,
colors of the same icy winds
gatherings’ of love,
little crumbs,
things of little breads
feeding our longing soul
everybody needs a little,
so, I’m
exchanging my pain into hope
exchanging my tears into joy
exchanging my loneliness into feathers that fly in the sky
Suddenly there was a shift in the atmosphere, even the birds could feel it. The red cardinal perched in the middle of winter snow. The backyard gate swinging. Like something was coming.
I’d never forgotten, the road that leads me home. Midst of maple in the air, the sayings of elders “take the Lord along with you” “when love builds the house”- the window curtains may fade, time slips over into another the day, Ceramic angels have multiplied scattered around the living room.
Krissy Mosley Ministries 