Locomotion by Jacqueline Woodson Page A

sitting at the window holding my baby sister, Lili
on my lap.
Mama was in the kitchen and Daddy must’ve
been at work.
Mama kept saying
Honey, don’t you drop my baby.
    Â 
    A pigeon came flying over to the ledge
and was looking at us.
Lili put her hand on the glass and the pigeon tried
to peck at it.
Lili snatched her hand away and screamed.
Not a scared scream,
just one of those laughing screams
that babies who can’t talk yet like to do.
    Â 
    Mama came running out the kitchen
drying her hands on her jeans.
When she saw us just sitting there, she let out a breath.
Oh, my Lord, she said,
I thought you’d dropped my baby.
I asked
Was I ever your baby, Mama?
and Mama looked at me all warm and smiley.
    Â 
    You still are, she said.
Then she went back in the kitchen.
    Â 
    I felt safe then.
I held Lili tighter.
Maybe if I was eleven then
and if one of my friends had been around,
I would have been embarrassed, I guess.
But I was just a little kid
and nobody else was around.
Just me and Lili and Mama and the pigeons.
And outside the sun
getting bright and warm suddenly
like it’d been listening in.

MAMA
    Some days, like today
and yesterday and probably
tomorrow—all my missing gets jumbled up inside of me.
    Â 
    You know honeysuckle talc powder?
Mama used to smell like that. She told me
honeysuckle’s really a flower but all I know
is the powder that smells like Mama.
Sometimes when the missing gets real bad
I go to the drugstore and before the guard starts
following me around like I’m gonna steal something
I go to the cosmetics lady and ask her if she has it.
When she says yeah, I say
Can I smell it to see if it’s the right one?
Even though the cosmetics ladies roll their eyes at me
they let me smell it.
And for those few seconds, Mama’s alive
again.
And I’m remembering
all kinds of good things about her like
the way she laughed at my jokes
even when they were dumb
and the way she sometimes just grabbed me
and hugged me before
I had a chance to get away.
    And the way her voice always sounded good
and bad at the same time when she was singing
in the shower.
And her red pocketbook that always had some
tangerine Life Savers inside it for me and Lili
    Â 
    No, I say to the cosmetics lady. It’s not the right one.
And then I leave fast.
Before somebody asks to check my pockets
which are always empty ’cause I don’t steal.

LILI
    And sometimes I combed Lili’s hair
braids mostly but sometimes a ponytail.
Lili would cry sometimes
the kind of crying where no tears came out.
Big faker.
I wouldn’t’ve hurt her head for a million dollars.
    Â 
    Some days
like today and yesterday and probably tomorrow
that’s all that’s on my mind
Mama and Lili.
    Â 
    Hair and honeysuckle talc powder.

FIRST
    First Miss Edna turned the key and
opened her door for me
and said This ain’t much, but it’s all I have.
A living room, a kitchen with a table and three chairs,
a room with just a bed in it and a poster of Dr. J
when he still played for the Sixers and had an Afro.
You’ll sleep in here, she said.
Another room down the hall.
No need for you to ever go in there, she said.
I never did.
    Â 
    All along the living room walls there’s pictures
of her sons. Grown-up and gone now.
    Â 
    I used to fill up Miss Edna’s house with noise.
    Â 
    I used to talk all the time.
I used to laugh real loud and holler especially
when the Knicks won a game ’cause
that don’t happen too much.
    Â 
    Be quiet! Miss Edna said.
Hush, Lonnie, Miss Edna said.
Shhhh, Lonnie, Miss Edna said.
Children should be seen but not heard, Miss Edna said.
    Â 
    And my voice got quieter
and quieter
and quiet.
    Â 

Now some days Miss Edna looks at me and says
You need to smile more, Lonnie.
You need to laugh sometimes
maybe make a little noise.
Where’s that boy I used to know,
the one who couldn’t be quiet?

COMMERCIAL BREAK
    Last night this