Mississippi Albatross

"M-I
cripple-letter-cripple-letter-I,
cripple-letter-cripple-letter-I,
hump-back-hump-back-I."

Since the summer of 1961, that adolescent rhyme muffled by the sound of the bullet being fired that tore through Grandma's frangible skull spilling her seventy-two years life onto the dirt and dismissed her weary soul from our Mississippi lives of degradation, have sought refuge within my dreams.

I sat beneath her old sewing machine that evening. My naked toes were struggling to brush the dusty barn floor. My fingertips were stroking the texture of the fabric cut from old clothing and flour sacks into squares for the quilt she was making by hand. Mrs. Pearl Mae, the brown-faced rag doll she'd sewn from croker-sack, was lying across my lap anxiously awaiting her new imaginary dress.

It was a typical Mississippi night overlooked by a full moon the color of something ready for harvest, vexatious mosquitoes, the sounds of crickets in the distance and dogs howling off key at the moon. The grown-ups left earlier that evening for their Friday night of corn liquor and fried catfish at the juke-joint leaving me alone with Grandma, which was always a treat because I got to do whatever I wanted. That night, I was a seamstress.

"What color would you like?" I asked Mrs. Pearl Mae, immediately answering "white" for her. With lips sewn shut and turned up into a yarn smile, I often spoke for her. I held up my right hand showing her illusory silk fabrics, lace trim and satin bows, as the left one steadied her on my lap. We discussed her wedding plans, the other dolls we'd invite and just how perfect I'd make the dress. That's why Grandma was known as the best seamstress in McAdams. She always got it right.

I was just about done with Mrs. Pearl Mae's dress-just about to ask her to stand so I could pin the hem on it when the sound of a single gunshot traumatized the peacefulness of the night. Terror lacerated my heart as I sat frozen in my chair, afraid to run outside, afraid to stay inside, not wanting to breathe. The sound of gunfire signaled trouble. Especially at night. More so on property owned by blacks as we were considered 'uppity.'

I don't remember how much time passed before I rose to my feet leaving my brown-faced companion to fall to the ground detonating the quiet cloud of red dust beneath her. No idea of how long it took to run to the barn door. I do however, remember everything after that appearing in slow motion, like the ticking frames in a silent black and white film.

The brightness of what I thought to be moonlight shocked my eyes and caused me to squint as the barn doors flew open at the force of my tiny hands. I saw her, my grandma, lying silent and still in the wide path between the barn and the home place. She was crumpled and frail, her tiny body bloodied and abandoned by her ruthless murderers. I knew it was her by the worn, orange shaving strap clenched between her overworked fingers. She carried it with her at night when she decided to go walking and remember things about Granddaddy. Said that just in case one of those "old toothless country dogs" took a mind to think she could run from him, she'd just tap him one good across his nose and he'd learn fast not to mess with her again. I wondered if she used it that night to fight back.

I ran to her, or at least I think I tried, as the short distance between us seemed to become greater with each step. My breath was short; my mouth tissue-paper dry. My body felt as if hands like those of a puppeteer were pulling my strings in every direction except toward her. My feet were sinking, drowning in mud that wasn't there. When I finally reached her body, I looked up only to discover that what I thought to be the brightness of the moon was a burning cross. The sweet, night air had been tainted with the smell of kerosene and Grandma's scorched flesh. I knew then the Klan had murdered my grandmother.

I learned to cry that night. Cry real tears. I cried for Grandma, knowing that she looked death in the face without fear because maybe it was better than living. I cried for my daddy, as I couldn't fathom the loss of my own mother, who I cried for hoping that she would never die. I cried for my other grandmother who was white, and hated as much by the Klan as any black person because she was considered a race-traitor. And I cried for Mrs. Pearl Mae, because her eyes were sewn on buttons that could not see, let alone shed real tears for my sorrow.

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