Yet McKinley knew uttering those words didn’t fit his mother either. Right now, they blared to those who would listen, “When those people are around, my own skin doesn’t fit me.” Though her eyes tended to duck and hide when she was feeling some kind of way, they declared her emotions the way a herald announced the arrival of the king. It peered inward rather than at the people they were leaving behind. What claimed his attention was her cloaked expression. When he peeked at his mother’s reflection, he didn’t linger long on her high cheekbones, narrow nose, or skin the color of chai tea with heavy cream. McKinley shifted his position on the soft leather seat as if parrying his father’s low blow. “Not that you’re ever comfortable in the kitchen,” Dad murmured, his voice barely discernible. I can’t be comfortable…around my own kitchen table, no less.” Mama’s soft voice bounced off the glass. “Because Julia persists in tellin’ me how I should think and feel. “I don’t know why y’all persist in calling it ‘prison’ every time Aunt Juju and Uncle Lawrence come to town.” His eyes connected with McKinley’s as he adjusted his rearview mirror, but in a blink, his attention returned to the road that led from the airport lot. “All? It’s just my aunt and uncle coming, not the entire Baldwin calvary.” Dad snapped his buckle into place.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |