No matter how grown I might think I am, I am still my momma’s child. Otherwise, I would have already ended this call. Especially since I was taking it in Terrence’s kitchen watching him through the window, instead of lying outside wrapped in his arms while he waited for the coals to burn down. But since I am my momma’s child, I sat and listened as she tried to make me remember somebody named Sister Hattie.
“Sister Hattie is a little woman,” she said. “Sings alto in the choir.”
No need reminding Momma that I never made it to church until well after the choir finished their A and B selections. Momma could have been in the choir for all I knew.
“I can’t place her. Listen, I have to—”
“She’s married to that blind man. Folks call him Blind Willie.”
In my desire to end this conversation, not prolong it, I decided against pointing out the political incorrectness of calling somebody Blind Willie. “Did he sing in the choir too?”
“Lord, give my child eyes that she might see.”
I could almost hear Momma’s eyes rolling through the phone.
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