back of the church.
The choir director motioned to the choir with his hand and they stood up and began to hum and sway.
All of a sudden, Emako’s mother, Verna, jumped up, stumbled over to the casket, and screamed, “Lord, no! Not my child!”
The choir stopped humming.
A man stood up, put his arm around her shoulders, and took her back to her seat. My body started to tremble. Daddy hugged me and Mama took my hands. Silver stars and moons dangled from the bracelet that Emako had given me for my birthday.
“Who can comfort this mother? I ask, who?” the preacher shouted. “No one but the Lord!”
People all around me whispered, “Amen.”
“Praise Jesus!” the preacher said softly. “Yet we have all come here today to try to comfort this mother, and this family, and to celebrate the short life of this young woman child, Emako Blue. We have come here today to try to make some sense out of this and we have come here today to say good-bye. But I say to each and every one of you, this is not really a good-bye, because Emako has just gone on ahead of us to a better place. And I say to this mother, you will see your child again on the other side, in that place we call Paradise.”
I wanted to tell him to stop, but the preacher was going on and on and his words were loud and hard, like cymbals banging.
Tragedy! Outrage! Atrocity!
Then softer words, like a violin.
Sweetness. Innocence. Like a lamb.
The choir stood and filled the church with a song called “Bringing in the Sheaves,” and I hesitated before I stood up to take my place in the procession of mourners at the front of the church, mostly because I wanted to remember Emako the way she was. My legs got weak and my daddy put his arms around me and held me up.
I turned my head and saw Emako’s mama. I swallowed hard as I started to cry again, but I was careful not to let her see the tears as the beginning of another salty stream touched my upper lip.
I walked slowly toward the coffin and stared. Emako. My girl. Emako Blue. She looked beautiful and her casket was baby pink.
Daddy led me back to the pew and we sat down. The church was finally quiet.
I put my head on my daddy’s shoulder.
I remembered the first time I met Emako.
My mind left the church.
It was the beginning of the school year. I was a sophomore and I was trying out for the school chorus, waiting in the auditorium for my turn to sing. There were twenty of us trying out for twelve spots. Mr. Santos, the director of the chorus, sat at the piano, warming up, and everyone was talking, filling the room with noise.
Mr. Santos stopped playing the piano, looked at a sheet of paper, and called a name. “Sage Hudson.”
A white girl with pale pink skin and long curly red hair walked up the steps and I could tell she was scared. She had a high voice that made most people in the room shut up and I imagined her singing music like opera or something. I wondered if my voice was good enough and part of me wanted to get up and leave.
Mr. Santos looked at his list again. “Savannah Parker.” This light-skinned black girl with a really big butt ran up the steps and almost tripped and fell. She was short but she was wearing shoes with four-inch heels. She had a good voice but she sang a little off-key. I took a deep breath and decided to stay. Maybe I had a chance.
“Could we have some quiet?” Mr. Santos asked.
We kept talking.
Mr. Santos shook his head and looked at his list. “Emako Blue.”
She stood up, and as she walked up the steps, she immediately had the attention of all of the fellas in the room.
“Damn! She’s fine!” I heard one of them say.
Then she opened her mouth and her voice poured out into the auditorium. It was like vanilla incense, smoky and sweet.
She had a voice that could do tricks, go high, low, and anywhere in between: a voice that’s a gift from God. She was Jill Scott and Minnie Riperton, Lauryn Hill and India.Arie.
She was way too pretty, with dark brown
The choir director motioned to the choir with his hand and they stood up and began to hum and sway.
All of a sudden, Emako’s mother, Verna, jumped up, stumbled over to the casket, and screamed, “Lord, no! Not my child!”
The choir stopped humming.
A man stood up, put his arm around her shoulders, and took her back to her seat. My body started to tremble. Daddy hugged me and Mama took my hands. Silver stars and moons dangled from the bracelet that Emako had given me for my birthday.
“Who can comfort this mother? I ask, who?” the preacher shouted. “No one but the Lord!”
People all around me whispered, “Amen.”
“Praise Jesus!” the preacher said softly. “Yet we have all come here today to try to comfort this mother, and this family, and to celebrate the short life of this young woman child, Emako Blue. We have come here today to try to make some sense out of this and we have come here today to say good-bye. But I say to each and every one of you, this is not really a good-bye, because Emako has just gone on ahead of us to a better place. And I say to this mother, you will see your child again on the other side, in that place we call Paradise.”
I wanted to tell him to stop, but the preacher was going on and on and his words were loud and hard, like cymbals banging.
Tragedy! Outrage! Atrocity!
Then softer words, like a violin.
Sweetness. Innocence. Like a lamb.
The choir stood and filled the church with a song called “Bringing in the Sheaves,” and I hesitated before I stood up to take my place in the procession of mourners at the front of the church, mostly because I wanted to remember Emako the way she was. My legs got weak and my daddy put his arms around me and held me up.
I turned my head and saw Emako’s mama. I swallowed hard as I started to cry again, but I was careful not to let her see the tears as the beginning of another salty stream touched my upper lip.
I walked slowly toward the coffin and stared. Emako. My girl. Emako Blue. She looked beautiful and her casket was baby pink.
Daddy led me back to the pew and we sat down. The church was finally quiet.
I put my head on my daddy’s shoulder.
I remembered the first time I met Emako.
My mind left the church.
It was the beginning of the school year. I was a sophomore and I was trying out for the school chorus, waiting in the auditorium for my turn to sing. There were twenty of us trying out for twelve spots. Mr. Santos, the director of the chorus, sat at the piano, warming up, and everyone was talking, filling the room with noise.
Mr. Santos stopped playing the piano, looked at a sheet of paper, and called a name. “Sage Hudson.”
A white girl with pale pink skin and long curly red hair walked up the steps and I could tell she was scared. She had a high voice that made most people in the room shut up and I imagined her singing music like opera or something. I wondered if my voice was good enough and part of me wanted to get up and leave.
Mr. Santos looked at his list again. “Savannah Parker.” This light-skinned black girl with a really big butt ran up the steps and almost tripped and fell. She was short but she was wearing shoes with four-inch heels. She had a good voice but she sang a little off-key. I took a deep breath and decided to stay. Maybe I had a chance.
“Could we have some quiet?” Mr. Santos asked.
We kept talking.
Mr. Santos shook his head and looked at his list. “Emako Blue.”
She stood up, and as she walked up the steps, she immediately had the attention of all of the fellas in the room.
“Damn! She’s fine!” I heard one of them say.
Then she opened her mouth and her voice poured out into the auditorium. It was like vanilla incense, smoky and sweet.
She had a voice that could do tricks, go high, low, and anywhere in between: a voice that’s a gift from God. She was Jill Scott and Minnie Riperton, Lauryn Hill and India.Arie.
She was way too pretty, with dark brown
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