In th Mornings

(After “Calling Jesus” from Jean Toomer’s Cane)

Her soul is like a little bob-tailed dog that follows her, whimpering. She is old enough, I know, t find a warm spot for it. But each night when she comes home an closes th big outside storm door, th little dog is left in th vestibule, filled with chills till morning. Some one … come by here Lord … soft as lint rolled off th dryer filter, will steal in an cover it that it need not shiver, an carry it t her where she sleeps upon a freshly made bed when she lies dreaming.

In th mornings, she means t put on a pot of coffee or put a teapot t boil or pour herself a glass of juice. Before it seems, every room she walks into requires something of her. As usual, th brownies have not appeared at her house while she slept. Only th little bob-tailed dog following her, warm now but still whimpering.

Th bathroom floor has gathered coils of hair like storm clouds in every corner. Back in th bedroom, th sheets have become lopsided an demand more than gentle tugging t make th bed up neatly. In th kitchen, th boxes she left yesterday t be taken out for recycling sit on th counter waiting t be collapsed an carried t th bin. Th clean dishes remain in th dishwasher awaiting their return t th cupboards. A handful of cups an sundries lie on th bamboo dish drain calling t be put away.

Three plastic cups still soak in th sink where she placed them after discovering them on th coffee table beside a toppled deck of playing cards. She frowns recalling one cup sitting atop an empty journal she bought herself while on a trip t a Jamaican resort. It had been meant for writing her thoughts, not t be used as a coaster. Th bottom of th cup stuck t its cover. Th paper tore when she pried them apart. Th little bob-tail dog dropped his head, spying some crumb fallen beneath th table.

When you meet her in th daytime on th streets, th little dog is always around. You hardly notice it at first, an then, when she has forgotten th streets an alleys, an th large house where she goes t bed at night, a soft thing like fur begins t rub your leg, an you hear a low, scared voice, lonely, calling, an you know that a cool something nozzles damp in your palms. Sensitive things like nostrils, quiver. Her breath comes sweet as honeysuckle whose pistils bear th drop of morning light. An her eyes carry t where developers find no need for vestibules, for swinging on iron hinges, storm doors.

At night when she’s finished running errands an grocery shopping, she returns an turns th deadbolt on th big outside storm door; she again leaves th little dog in th chilly vestibule, while she goes about more household chores. She puts away grocery an stashes th bags behind th pantry door. She runs hot water an squeezes dish soap in plastic cups that are still caked with God knows what from having set for God knows how long. She stacks clean dishes an begins loading dirty dishes into th dishwasher. Then she dries her hands on a dishtowel which smells from overuse. So she takes it with th intent of dropping it in th laundry room hamper, only t discover th yellow light illuminated on th washing machine—clean—wet clothes expect th dryer.

She opens th dryer door t find a quilt, a pillowcase, bedding for th dog crate, an a few towels, which of course, need folding. She takes them into her bedroom, drops them on th bed. Returns t th laundry room, loads th wet clothes into th dryer one piece at a time, in order t catch those that require a hanger for air drying instead of th intense heat of th machine. She turns on th dryer and hangs th clothes that need hanging. She returns t fold th pile of laundry on th bed. Now there is a folded pile of laundry on her bed. And she has not yet had a cup of coffee or tea or a glass of juice.

She eats from a take-out container, pulled from behind a gallon of milk, still cold from th fridge. She drinks warm ginger ale. A loud-low belch erupts from her belly but there is no need t beg pardon of th empty room. Her fork lingers a moment while she looks beyond th sink out past th weathered fence, noting a red-breasted robin hopping along th pickets. Robins had seemed so common, but she had trouble remembering when she had last seen one perch an take flight. When was th last time she had even turned her eyes skyward?

Her soul is like a little bob-tailed dog, that follows her, whimpering. I’ve seen it tagging on behind her, up streets where chestnut trees flowered, where dusty asphalt had been freshly sprinkled with clean water. Up alleys where folks sat, wearing all of their belongings, on low door-steps of ruined limestone sanctuaries an sang an stopped hoping. At night, when she comes home, th little dog is left in th vestibule, nosing th crack beneath th big storm door, filled with chills till morning. Some one … come Jesus … soft as th bare feet of Christ moving across freshly fallen snow, will steal in and cover it that it need not shiver, and carry it t her where she sleeps: cradled in fresh-washed quilts.

V Efua Prince, Ph.D., explores critical aspects of African American women’s historical relationship to home, family, work, and the dynamics of Black family life.