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Pondering The Letter

She walked outside her townhouse into the steamy, misty heat of St. Louis, exhaling and breathing in a mouthful of hot.  It took more energy than she wanted to expend to step into the world today when all she wanted to do was sit in her balcony office that overlooked the forest of trees and ponder the letter she received in the mail yesterday.  

How in the world did a letter that was written for her before she was even born managed to be hidden away on the other side of the country and reach her now? What is she supposed to make of the words etched in ink on the parchment paper, carefully folded and sealed in an envelope? Why the strict instructions to not know the identity of the person who mailed it, not to even know the gender or any other identifying marker except they have been her "benefactor?" This was just a little too much crazy than she wanted to deal with on a day that was promising to fulfill those predictions of global warming, just another St. Louis summer.

She shook her head, pulled down her Mark Anthony Collection sunglasses and sighed, it was too early and too hot for her head to travel down the question trail.  Perhaps her friends she was meeting for morning coffee would tell her to just shut up and accept what the letter said.  She couldn't let it go so easily, it made her feel like her life was being orchestrated and directed by someone else and perhaps her choices were not her own.  What did it mean that her mother decided that this person would be her benefactor and set aside all this money for whatever she needed? She moved around a few times from childhood to adulthood, how did this person find her, was there a tracking device in her dreads?




Comments

Joy Weese Moll said…
Good job taking this horrid weather and converting it to beautiful prose!

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Tayé Foster Bradshaw is the poet's nom de plumme. She resides in a suburb of St. Louis surrounded by her family, her books, her pens, and her lattes.

This poem is inspired by the lives and burdens of many women, particularly women of color, who are forced to carry the cares, thoughts, and expectations of others without regard to their own wants, needs, and health. This poem is a release.




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Walking
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reality
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©2016. Tayé Foster Bradshaw Group, Antona Smith. All Rights Reserved.

Bridges used to scare me as a little girl. In the town where I grew up, in order to get from my neighborhood over to the swimming pool or summer activities, we walked. I was always fine until we reached the crest of the hill and that looming structure that connect roads-to-roads, over cars zooming beneath, promising me opportunity on the other side, if I just trusted the weight of my tiny skinny nine-year-old self against the wind blowing or the sun streaming over this manmade steal structure.  My l…

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Loud claps of thunder

Almost couldn't see the rain

For my tears falling down

Black Mama Tears

too many

dying

in their sleep

on a run

at a store

too many

stopped

just walking

just working

just breathing

It rained today

And I couldn't see

for all the weeping

of

Black

Mamas.