Carrie Jean Wilson Jones

Music plays the latest hits. Trails of incense fill the room. The lava lamp twirls as colors dance and play upon the moon. Smoke and fragrance intertwine to create a special scent. Polaroid’s hang within the net as the record player spins. Siblings play with paddle ball while another plays with jacks. Mother plays with sugar hill and fills her arm with smack. Empty cupboards sing a song for every child to hear. Grumbling are the hunger pangs standing in the mirror. Busses run from dusk to dawn. The tickets are for free. Movies at the Fox Theater. Our favorite is Bruce Lee. Penny candy at the store. There’s plenty to pass around. The meat market where food is carved and ordered by the pound. Siblings play with hula hoops while another plays basketball. Mother faces welfare staff. Then comes the final call. Hugs bestowed on every child. Kisses placed upon their heads. The love is true. The pain is real. Tears are softly shed. Whisked away into a car, each child a different route. One heads north, another east; the last one’s headed south. Unfamiliar are surroundings in homes decked out in style. Keen eyes assess appearance of every single child. Clothing dull and tattered. They’re led on shopping spree. Allowance for new wardrobe. Stacy Adams on their feet. Longing for mother’s love for this was always true. If only to see her one more time and kiss and hug her too.